


The Fisher King

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (chapter four only), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Coming of Age, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Marriage, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Overdosing, Reichenbach Feels, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of firsts, as measured by time and understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Story title and inspirational words taken from "The Fisher King Blues" by the wonderful and talented Frank Turner.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John is seven years old the first time he sees his mother cry._

**The Fisher King**

_Parents don’t be too kind to your kids_

_Or else how will they grow up to be_

_Louche Parisian sinners or Nashville country singers_

_Singing about the terrible things their parents did_

 

 

**1.**

John is seven years old the first time he sees his mother cry.

He and Harry have just come in from the back garden, both of them covered in dirt and grinning like mad. He had found a birds nest high up in one of the branches of the old oak tree in the yard, and Harry had insisted she could climb just as well as any boy. The resulting tumble out of the tree was loud and painful, but the two of them had laughed and laughed, careless and wild in the way only children can.

Mum is sitting at the kitchen table with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her back is to them and John is momentarily bewildered at the lack of biscuits on the table. Mum _always_ has biscuits on the table for them when they come in from outside. Harry looks at him with worried confusion etched all over her round face.

“Mum?” she asks quietly, and John notices for the first time that Mum’s shoulders are shaking and there’s a broken tea mug on the floor, a small brown puddle forming across the linoleum.

John, ever the helper, grabs a towel from the oven handle and bends down to mop up the mess, carefully gathering the bits of broken ceramic and shoveling them into the bin. Harry is over at their mother’s side now, small hand perched on the arm of the chair. John can tell from the look on her face that something is very, _very_ wrong.

“Is it the cup?” John asks tentatively, mentally tallying the contents of his change bank and wondering if he can afford to buy her a new mug. He would buy her ten mugs if it would make her stop being sad.

Mum shakes her head and swipes her palm across her face, clears her throat and then stands abruptly. “Your father won’t be home for supper,” she says gruffly and begins busily tidying the kitchen.

Harry stares at John in bewilderment, her face a perfect mask of confusion and worry. John feels his heart stutter in his chest, wondering what on earth has happened to make Mum so upset. He goes over to the kettle, fills it and turns the burner on. In his mind, there is nothing on the planet that can’t be solved with a good cuppa, so he waits for the whistle by the stove, back still to the room.

It isn’t until much later, when Uncle Mike is over and their mother has locked herself in the bathroom that John finds out exactly what happened.

“Your dad’s been in an accident,” Uncle Mike says gravely to the two of them. He’s seated them on the sofa in the sitting room—the one they barely ever use unless company is over—and crouched himself down on the floor opposite. John registers the words, but doesn’t quite understand their meaning. If Dad’s been hurt, surely they’d be at the hospital by now. Unless…

Harry’s hands come up to her mouth and her eyes shine with tears. She seems incapable of speech, so John asks, “Is he OK?”

Uncle Mike looks uncomfortable for a minute before he shifts to his knees and sighs. All adults seem to do is _sigh,_ and John wonders what it is they all have to be so unhappy about all the time. “Your dad’s fine, John,” he eventually says. “But he hit a pedestrian—someone out walking,” he clarifies, as if John doesn’t know what the word _pedestrian_ means. John feels his irritation ratchet up a little at that. He _is_ top of his class after all, even if he’s still only in primary school.

“Is the _pedestrian_ OK?” John asks, carefully pronouncing the word correctly and glaring fixedly at his uncle. Harry is still sniveling next to him on the sofa, so he puts his arm through her elbow and tries to calm her down. He’s seen adults calm other adults down on telly before, so he knows what he should be doing is putting his arm around her shoulders and offering her a tissue, but he has neither the tissue, nor the inclination to pull her to his shoulder and get her snot all over his jumper, so he settles for patting  her knee and hoping it will be enough.

Uncle Mike looks uncomfortable again. He huffs in frustration and turns his head to shout through the doorway towards the bathroom, “Damn it, Mags, can’t you break this shite to your own kids?”

Harry sniffles loudly at the curse and John’s eyes widen. Whatever has happened must be bad if the adults are swearing around them. John feels a hot curl of dread sink into the pit of his stomach, and it only gets worse when Mum comes shuffling to the doorway, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.

Uncle Mike looks half relieved, half exasperated, and stands to meet her, muttering something under his breath that John can’t quite hear. Mum glances over at them and fresh tears brim around her eyes. John wishes she would stop crying and tell them where Dad is and what’s happened. He feels Harry shift next to him and wonders if he should get up and go to Mum, or stay here and continue to comfort Harry.

Finally, Mum comes over to them with Uncle Mike and sits down on the floor in front of them. She seems to collect herself for a minute and, after glancing at Uncle Mike, who has his arms crossed over his chest and looks irritable, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

“Your father’s in jail,” she says quickly, as if the faster she says it, the less it will hurt; like a plaster being torn off quickly. John feels the sting of it anyway and he hears Harry gasp next to him.

“What _happened_?” Harry wails, tearing herself away from John and curling into a little ball on the sofa. Mum doesn’t even scold her for having her shoes on the cushions, and John takes that as a bad sign. Mum visibly stiffens again before her shoulders sag and she sighs in resignation.

“He hit someone with his car, sweetheart,” Mum says slowly, her voice catching on the words. “He had gone to the store for some milk, and he didn’t see the person crossing the street.” Harry rocks a little on the sofa, but John feels entirely numb. Dad had gone to the store for milk. For _milk_. John had needed milk for his Weetabix, so Dad had gone to the store for milk, and now he wasn’t coming home.

“But,” Harry says, her voice too loud in the crowded sitting room, “But it was just an accident! Dad didn’t mean to hit anyone, right? Why is he in jail?”

Mum looks like she’s about to throw up, and Uncle Mike is gritting his teeth so hard John’s sure he’s about to break one. “You have to tell them, Maggie,” he finally says, though he sounds angry instead of sad.

John knows already. He’s known since the broken tea mug in the kitchen, and his voice is completely steady when he says, “He was drunk.”

The whole room seems to stop, and everyone stares at John as though he’s grown a second pair of arms. He suddenly feels like the whole world is staring at him, and he squirms against the uncomfortable sofa cushions. He might be the youngest person in the room, but that doesn’t mean he’s an idiot.

“Johnny,” Mum says softly, and she looks embarrassed, but before she can say anything else, Harry explodes off the couch in a furious rage.

“This is all _your fault_!” she shouts, finger pointing accusingly at John, who backs himself further into the cushions. “If Dad hadn’t gone to get _your stupid milk_ , none of this would have happened!” Her fist lashes out faster than any of them can blink, and John feels his head jerk to the side before the impact of the blow even registers. The sting on his cheek and the ringing in his ear are delayed by a fraction, but the shock of it hits first.

Suddenly there’s a flurry of motion as Harry launches herself at him, tackling him back onto the sofa and fists flying at any part of him she can reach. John curls himself into a tight ball and tries to defend himself in the only way he can. Mum leaps forward to pull her off, but Harry twists around and shoves her back; her self-righteous anger and adrenaline giving her more strength than any ten-year-old should have. Uncle Mike curses again and strides forward to physically pick Harry up around the middle, her limbs flailing through the air as she scrambles to get back at John.

John lays on the sofa in shocked disbelief. He can taste blood in his mouth and feel his right eye swelling, but the hollow twist in the pit of his stomach is what hurts the worst. Harry is absolutely right: it _is_ his fault, and the guilt of it sinks through to his bones. Harry is still flailing in Uncle Mike’s arms, all furious movement and skinny ankles, hair flying as she tosses her head from side to side. Mum is barely recovered from her ungainly stumble into the coffee table, but she regains her balance and grabs at Harry’s swinging feet. She’s saying something supposedly soothing into Harry’s bright red, tear-streaked face, but Harry’s glare is poisonous as it shoots towards John.

She finally stops struggling and Uncle Mike puts her cautiously down onto the floor, watching for signs of trickery. Harry just stands there, still but for the manic shakes wracking her body. Mum smoothes her hair back off her forehead and presses a small kiss there, swiping at Harry’s tear stained cheeks with her thumbs. Harry always was a drama queen, but John is reluctant to defend himself at the moment.

“I will never forgive you for this,” Harry spits towards him, dark blue eyes harsh and livid. “ _Never_.” She turns on her heel and stomps out the door, clattering up the stairs to the second floor.

“Harry,” Mum calls after her, a step too late and seemingly too shocked to move quickly enough. “Harriet Alice Watson, you get back down here this minute!”

The answering slam of the bedroom door echoes through the house like a cannon blast. Mum and Uncle Mike stare at each other, seemingly at a loss as John tries to keep the blood dripping from his eyebrow off the sofa. It doesn’t hurt as much as it will, but as John wipes at the gash with the back of his hand, he cannot help the low hiss that escapes him.

Mum looks around, devastated and wild-eyed. “Oh Johnny,” she says and moves forward, stumbling around the coffee table before falling to her knees on the carpet. John can feel the panic and guilt bubbling up the back of his throat and tries to keep the bile from rising. His head aches and he’s covered in blood, but he slides off the couch to rest in front of Mum, who is crying again. Heedless of the mess, he puts his arms around Mum’s shoulders and lets her cry into his jumper, stroking his sticky fingers through her hair and rocking her through her sobs. Uncle Mike mumbles something unintelligible and leaves them there on the floor.

It doesn’t matter. Despite his age, John is strong. He will be strong enough for all of them, and he will never let anyone down again.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock is thirteen years old the first time he sees his mother cry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Lori D for the quick beta!  
> Title and lyrics from "The Fisher King Blues" by the marvelous Frank Turner.

_And though it seems a little strange to me,  
People never really change, it seems._

 

**2.**

Sherlock is thirteen years old the first time he sees his mother cry.

“‘April is the cruelest month’,” she says, fingers stiff in their black lace gloves as they trail along the dark mahogany of Father’s impressive casket. The rain pours down in steady streams and Sherlock can feel it seeping up his trouser legs, staining the dark grey wool black and sodden. Mycroft is a study in stoicism beneath the wide swell of his black umbrella, and Sherlock briefly wonders if he learned it in the drafty halls of Cambridge, or if it’s a quality inherent to his being. Sherlock feels precisely opposite: the spring thunderstorm more congruous with his emotions than his brother’s softly pained expression. Sherlock feels shockingly hollow, yet the urge to scream is nearly overwhelming. The rapid fire thoughts and questions and observations that make his mother groan with impatience and make— _made_ his father smile indulgently have frustratingly quieted into nothing more than an echoing emptiness.

He wants to fling himself into the storm, to beat himself raw against the unyielding wood of the coffin, to howl into the wind at the unbearable injustice of the world, just to feel _something_. Instead he watches as scores of strangers, shielded by the yawning expanse of plastic, metal and nylon, file forward and pay their last respects to the greatest man who ever lived. None of them knew him, not really. The thought angers Sherlock as much as the blankness in his mind will allow.

Mycroft takes their mother by the elbow, tucking her away neatly under his umbrella and producing a handkerchief from his inside pocket before moving them both towards the house, the mud squelching under his perfectly polished shoes. Sherlock watches with a detached interest, letting the steady patter of rain soak into his curls, flattening them to his head and causing freezing rivulets to stream down his sharp cheekbones.

“Come along, Sherlock dear,” his aunt Martha mutters, holding her umbrella out in silent demand. The rain soaks through the back of her black jacket immediately, but Sherlock doesn’t move.  She sighs and steps towards him, beckoning with her wide hand, stubby fingers encased in too-tight gloves. Sherlock feels repulsion creep up the back of his neck and vows never to hold another umbrella again. She gives up after a few more minutes, shivering as she turns and tutting loudly at his wild antics, demanding he show some respect on this of all days. Sherlock feels vaguely ill, but cannot seem to move from beneath the tree next to where his father will forever be laid to rest.

He sinks to the ground: overlong, wiry limbs folding in on themselves like a collapsing lawn chair. He’s too tall for his age, and last summer’s growth spurt seems to have stretched him into unbearably skinny, a fact the rest of the boys at Eton don’t hesitate to taunt him about. His nobbly knees and elbows stick out like a newborn colt and he’s ungainly and uncoordinated in his movements, time yet to teach him his future willowy grace. He sits there, heedless of the mud and water soaking through the fine layers of wool and cotton until it grows dark and cold, the chill barely registering as gooseflesh climbs up his arms.

Sherlock shivers in the dusk, watching as the grey clouds slowly fade to black, the wetness on his cheeks nothing more than water spattered from the sky. Father had been the one person in his life he had trusted more than himself, the only person who had believed in him without condition or snide cynicism.

“ _Do not just see, my boy, but observe_ ,” he had said, cradling Sherlock on his lap in the armchair by the fire in his study, picture books abandoned already to make way for _Grey’s Anatomy_ and _Idylls of the King_. Sherlock had been only four, curious and inquisitive, precocious to a fault, but Father had spoken to him as an adult, not curbing his language to the absurd diminutives the other adults insisted on using with him.  Father had taught his children the art of deductive reasoning, and Sherlock had taken to it faster and better than Mycroft ever could. Mycroft has always been better at observation, but his deductions are always slower and less methodical, harboring in the black and white _fact_ without taking into account the _reason_ behind them, and therefore their subsequent conclusions. Sherlock lives his life in shades of grey, bordering on the edges of clarity without the sharp jab of social niceties and unending weight of other's expectations. As far as he’s concerned, he no longer has to live up to anybody’s expectations but his own.

Mummy and Mycroft have always been thick as thieves, playing endless games of chess with their tea sets and books. Sherlock had preferred the soothing quiet of Father’s study; large tomes filled with diagrams of dissected animals and chemical equations, of maths and atlases filled with possibility and adventure. Where Mycroft had excelled at bridge games and croquet matches with the other lads, Sherlock had shied away from social interaction, content to take his brand new chemistry set into the barn and stain his fingers with acid burns and iodine. Mummy had been appalled when she found him calmly and methodically dissecting the neighbor’s cat, whereas Father had taken the carefully reconstructed skeleton and placed it in glass, beaming with pride as he displayed it on the shelf behind his desk.  Sherlock could name each of the bones in turn, and recounted them to his delighted father with prompt precision. He had been six.

It was Father who first put a violin into his hands at the age of eight, and Sherlock had taken to it immediately. His natural musicality and ability to devour information whole had given way to an incredible sense of freedom with the instrument. While Mycroft plodded along at the harpsichord, insisting it was a much more practical instrument to learn, Sherlock soared above his ability in mere months, pulling sonatas and melodies effortlessly from the strings and reveling in finally having a creative outlet for his outlandish imagination. The first song he ever wrote was presented to Father on the night of his birthday, written down painstakingly onto the barren staff paper and crowned with the melancholy title: _The Wastelands_.

Mother had been only mildly interested, her face a cold mask of polite indifference. Next to her on the settee, Mycroft sat the mirror image of her: slightly pudgy cheeks pale and inscrutable, his light eyes sharp and watchful under his tidy sweep of auburn hair.  Sherlock couldn’t help but compare himself to his brother: as different as night and day. Where Mycroft favored sweets a little too fondly, indulged by Mummy’s ubiquitous tea services, Sherlock found food to slow his thinking process. His empty stomach was like an anchor, drawing his thoughts into sharper focus. Most of the time he was simply too busy to eat, forgetting unimportant things like sleep and nutrition in the face of such learning and experimentation. Mycroft’s hair was trim and neat, the style already reminiscent of the government officials he studied and admired. Sherlock’s hair was a mop of unruly dark curls, wild and untamable even with the sticky product Mummy insisted on trying. Mycroft’s middle was soft and pliant, his love for tea cakes and scones already proving too much for his young metabolism. Sherlock was thin as a rail, his features overly sharp and curious, edging into the exotic almond-eyed beauty of his Father’s bohemian roots. Mother’s French grace had passed to Mycroft, along with the famous rein on his temper. Sherlock was fiery and impulsive, constantly in trouble with his tutors and the household staff for being where he shouldn’t and putting himself in what they deemed dangerous situations.

“ _The Wastelands_ , Sherlock? What frivolous nonsense,” Mummy had scoffed.

Mycroft’s gaze had seemed to sharpen, his expression clearing in unnerving understanding. Sherlock was perpetually aware of the annoying and bitter fact that Mycroft, being older and therefore more educated, would always be slightly cleverer, and the thought rankled his adolescent mind as much then as it does now. His lips had twisted when he noticed Sherlock’s scrutiny as if to say _See what it is you’ve done now, little brother. You’ve gone and upset Mummy_.Father had dismissed them all with a discreet cough and beamed at him when he laid cheek to chin rest and took up his bow, letting his fingers fly by memory all the notes he’d contrived to please his father.

He wishes he had his violin now. He would stand out here all night in the rain and play and play and play. His fingers itch for the strings beneath their tips, and he begins to compose a requiem in his mind, achingly sad and melancholy: fitting for the gravity of the situation.

When Sherlock finally goes inside the house, most of the guests have already gone. It’s dark out, the spring night still coming earlier than most would like. Sherlock thinks it fits his mood entirely. He’s soaked to the bone and shivering slightly, though not exactly cold. There’s a still calm about him that he cloaks himself in, pushing his emotions down viciously and adopting the cold indifference that comes so easily to his mother and Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hisses at him from the parlor, one hand still cupping Mummy’s elbow in possessive security. Sherlock shrugs and sidles down the hall, secretly pleased at the small pools of water he drips across the hard marble flooring. Mummy takes notice and pauses mid-conversation with one of the more distant relatives. Her gaze sweeps him from flattened curls to sodden shoes and her mouth tightens in disapproval.  

“Sherlock, dear,” she begins, and Sherlock knows he’s in trouble. She only ever calls him _dear_ when he’s done something unforgivably wrong. Like mourn the loss of the only parent who gave a damn. She has collected herself remarkably well, and he can tell by the stiffness in her posture that she’s spitefully regretting her momentary loss of composure. “Do clean yourself up. You look a fright. Where is your umbrella?”

Sherlock doesn’t even dignify her with an answer, just shakes his head quickly, scattering droplets of water that soak into the Axminster. Mycroft makes a strangled noise and pulls Mummy back quickly, shielding her against the onslaught, and glares furiously at Sherlock over the tip of his pointed nose.

“Childish, Sherlock,” he admonishes with a dignified drawl, but there’s a steely glint in his eye that belies his casual tone. Sherlock shrugs again and wonders when he can go back to Eton. He despises the constant buzz of his fellow students, and the classes he’s forced to take are frankly appalling, but anything would be better than being stuck in this horrible place for another day.

Mummy fixes him with a gimlet eye and her face draws into the usual mask of quiet displeasure she always adopts when she looks at him fully in the face. “Caring is not an advantage,” she says, her tone hard and unforgiving. Mycroft dips his head surreptitiously in agreement and Sherlock feels the urge to scream again. None of them even _care_ that Father has gone and died, leaving him with the most miserable family imaginable.

Sherlock suddenly finds it very hard to breathe. He huffs and slouches his way out into the back garden, ignoring the calls that follow him and the tap of Mycroft’s insistent umbrella. He needs to get out before he does something completely unreasonable that leaves him stranded and more alone than he is already. It is calm out in the garden: all falling rain and darkened skies, and despite the cold, Sherlock finds it comforting. He sits on the low bench at the apex of the roses where the willow tree hangs just low enough to create a small bit of shelter. He fishes in his pocket and takes out the slightly crumpled packet of cigarettes he nicked out of Uncle Henry’s jacket, knowing there will be a lighter secreted away among the sticks of tobacco.

Placing one slim white stick between his lips, he holds the small flame to the end and inhales, immediately coughing and nearly sending himself over the side of the bench. It is horrible and acrid, and the taste alone is completely disgusting, but he finds the slow burn of the paper and the way the smoke curls into the wind to be entirely captivating. He tries again, slower this time and finds he doesn’t mind the taste as much the second time around. He knows smoking is bad for him, but he’s feeling reckless and a little rebellious, and the rush of the nicotine is helping ground him somehow.

He finishes his cigarette and lights another, walking around the garden and back towards the newly turned mound of earth. Every squelch of his shoes sounds like a cannon blast in the motionless countryside, and he reaches the grave without anybody interrupting him. He stands under the tree, watching as the grey smoke drifts with the air currents and knows he will never care as much about anyone ever again.

“Goodbye, Father,” he says, and takes another drag.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mycroft is twenty nine the first time he fancies himself in love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to Lori D for the beta, and for putting up with my constant dangling participles :)

_The younger brothers and sisters wonder at what they're missing,  
And wonder how the air tastes when you're really free._

 

**3.**

Mycroft is twenty nine the first time he fancies himself in love.

Her name is Cynthia, and she is perfect. At least, that’s how she appears to Mycroft. She is undoubtedly uncouth and incredibly beneath him as far as intellect, social standing, and occupation are concerned, but she makes him feel like a brand new person from the first moment he sets eyes on her.

He meets her at the local pub, of all places. He has an appointment with one of the more unsavory persons in his employ, and he sits himself down in a corner booth and tries to look as inconspicuous as possible. He’s very good at getting people to notice him when he wants, and avoid him when he doesn’t, and he employs every trick in his arsenal in this slightly greasy, overcrowded establishment. His contact is late, and Mycroft sighs as he realizes he’s now forced to order a drink, or risk drawing unwanted attention.

The barman eyes him warily as Mycroft waves an imperious hand, and abandons the glass he’s wiping to lean towards another employee within earshot. The counter is so crowded Mycroft can’t even see her until she’s standing in front of his table, looking harassed and impatient, and for the first time in his life, Mycroft finds himself utterly speechless.

She is absolutely captivating. Her mouth is pursed in a little moue of impatience and she looks tired, but her clear blue eyes are simply stunning and sparkle with what looks like wry amusement at his three piece suit and obvious misfit with this crowd. He stares at her unabashedly and finds his observations completely abandoning him for once. She is merely a series of blank questions and unnaturally inconclusive observations, and Mycroft finds he is blinking at her without the slightest idea of what to say.

Her eyebrow quirks at him and the corner of her perfect lips twitch a little. “Alright, luv, what can I get you?” she intones, her amusement dissipating rapidly as he just continues to stare.

“Mycroft,” he finds himself saying stupidly. Her lovely brow creases and she leans closer, the front of her blouse dipping a little as gravity pulls the fabric down and exposes the tantalizing line of her cleavage.

“Sorry?” she says louder and moves closer, leaning one chipped-nailed hand on the table in front of him.

Mycroft clears his throat and tries desperately to collect is usual aloof indifference. “I said my name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.” He holds out his hand to her in what he knows to be an overly formal gesture. She looks amused again and slips her delicate fingers against his palm. He shakes it once, but doesn’t let go when she goes to pull away. She actually blushes prettily and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear before she finally says, “Cynthia,” and leaves it at that.

The silence between them is becoming strained, and while that kind of thing is usually what Mycroft is going for in most situations, he finds he is woefully unprepared for this kind of interaction. He doesn’t want to intimidate her, or manipulate her, or belittle her in any way, and he’s not entirely prepared for this feeling of free falling through all of his social etiquette.

“Right,” she finally says, tugging slightly on her hand, which is still captured in Mycroft’s own. He reluctantly lets her go, and plasters on his most convincing and unassuming smile. She seems to relax marginally and reaches for a pad of paper in her apron, looking up at him expectantly.

Ah, yes. He’s meant to order a drink now. “Talisker neat, please.”

She looks at him with that impossibly attractive bemusement again, but turns without another word to fetch his whiskey.

He doesn’t see her again until two months later, sitting in a conference room and waiting impatiently on the representative from MI5 to grace his presence. She calls herself Anthea this time, and Mycroft is completely and utterly fucked. Everything from her accent to her demeanor is entirely different, but it is unmistakably her. She smirks at him with that wry amusement as she seats herself in the chair across from his desk. She’s totally transformed here in this environment: her thick hair resting in light waves around her shoulders, her bespoke business suit crisp and neat, the file in her perfectly manicured fingers stamped with _confidential_ in bold red.

Mycroft finds himself, yet again, hopelessly at a loss for words. He can merely blink at her from behind his desk in stunned silence as she perches herself forward and stares back at him with casual politeness that almost conceals her immense amusement at his predicament. He is captivated.

Sherlock, of course, tears her to pieces the first time he meets her, and even though Mycroft had kept his face as guarded and neutral as possible, Sherlock had picked up on his wretched _feelings_ as soon as he’d spotted them in a room together. There’s a little malicious glint in Sherlock’s eye as he loudly announces to the room at large that she has a considerable amount of gambling debt and a history of bad relationships, mocked only further when he warns her off his “abominable brother if she knows what’s good for her.”

What Sherlock doesn’t know is that Anthea is actually clean as a whistle in regards to her credit and that her list of relationships is far from the epic tragedy he read on her person. She is _very_ good at putting on personas, as Mycroft found out first hand, and he smiles quietly to himself with the knowledge that Sherlock is in actuality making a fool of himself and no one else. She stands in the midst of the onslaught, unflinching and perfectly blank as Sherlock categorically lists all of her faults, none of which are actually true.

Mycroft loves her so much it aches.

He grows accustomed to having her in his daily routine, and steals her away from MI5 as soon as he’s able. She’s startlingly willing to comply, and she peers at him with that constant wry amusement that has Mycroft shifting in his seat whenever he catches her at it. Just when he thinks he has any small part of her figured out, she negates his findings with a quirk of an immensely tailored eyebrow and a flick of her gorgeously thick hair. It’s been over a decade now, and Mycroft is still startled every time she manages to surprise him.

“Good morning, sir,” she says brightly to him, holding out a steaming cup of tea, prepared exactly as he likes it, of course, and a plate containing a single bran muffin and a slice of melon. Mycroft rolls onto his side and runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to flatten down the worst of it. He notes with chagrin that it’s getting long again, and laments the fact that he cannot just simply let the curls spring forward like Sherlock’s mad mop of hair. Being a government official means a lot of things, and keeping one’s appearance streamlined is an unfortunate fact, therefore he must keep them closely cropped and tidy for propriety’s sake.

“Good morning…” he hesitates, leading her on with a raise of his own eyebrows as he sips at his tea.

“Alice today,” she replies with a brilliant smile. Mycroft nods and accepts the muffin, sitting up against his headboard and placing his tea on his bedside table. She shifts her weight and hands him a stack of files, the real reason she’s in his bedroom at this ungodly hour, much as it pains him to admit.

He would dearly love to wake up to her voice for other reasons, but he’ll take what he can get at present. “Alice today,” he repeats, and she nods confirmation. “Ah. We must be heading to Paris after all, then.”

She flashes him a delicate smile and he watches as her face changes completely: subtle movements in her cheeks, her lips plumping impossibly and her eyes growing heavy lidded and sultry. “Oui, monsieur,” she husks out, and Mycroft feels his pants tighten in spite of himself. She is positively marvelous, and he wonders how he could ever be expected to keep up with the way she slides into different personas the way he slides into his designer trousers. He will never get enough of her, he realizes, and that’s a frightening enough concept to leave him wary and desperate for more.

She is completely transformed when he steps into his office twenty minutes later, her well-cut suit gone in favor of a tight-bodiced, garishly red dress. Her hair is pinned in an elegant chignon and the spikes of her heels make her nearly as tall as he is. She glides towards him easily, all fluid motions and oozing sex appeal, and Mycroft briefly wonders which one of her characters is the real her. Her job today will be seducing the head of the foreign office, a task he would trust to nobody else, and one he has absolutely no doubt she will succeed at within mere minutes.

Sherlock, of course, ruins everything the moment they step onto French soil. The call comes early, just as Alice is stepping down the aeroplane stairs, her towering heels clicking softly as she descends each riser. Mycroft's mobile rings twice in rapid succession and Alice glances up the stairs at him, her expression conveying both slight alarm and honest exasperation. Mycroft retrieves the vibrating and still ringing mobile, ignoring the way his stomach seems to drop at the action.

"Holmes," he answers out of propriety. The SAS agent on the other end of the phone knows exactly who it is he's calling, and if he's phoning Mycroft in the middle of a known mission, there has to be a very good, very _Sherlock_ reason behind it. The dread seems to sink in further, until Mycroft remembers that John Watson is with Sherlock now and the likelihood of getting that heart-stopping call ("Sir, we need you to identify a body...") is considerably less than it had been previously.

"Cavenaugh, Sir," the clipped voice on the other end says, and Mycroft's heart seems to stop entirely. It _is_ Sherlock then.

"Well?" Mycroft says when Agent Cavenaugh hesitates, not entirely succeeding in keeping the irritated worry out of his tone.

"Sir," Cavenaugh hesitates again, and Mycroft can feel his temper rising. "It's target one, sir. Your mission has been compromised."

Mycroft can feel the tension headache starting at his right temple and spreading. He doesn't even realize he's gritting his teeth until he feels the cool touch of soft fingertips against his jaw. He opens eyes he hadn't even known he'd shut to find Alice standing in front of him, her constant wry amusement gone in favor of honest concern. Her clear blue eyes search his for a brief moment before she nods once and heads back up the stairs, murmuring soft instructions to the staff as Mycroft tries desperately to keep his composure intact. 

Four hours later and they're back in England, the sleek black car moving seamlessly through traffic as Mycroft silently seethes. Sherlock has managed to derail his plans, yet again, by blundering into dangerous situations mouth first; his deductions and observations pouring out through his lips before he's even stopped to _think_ about the consequences of his actions.

Alice is silently perched on the seat next to him, elegant legs crossed at the knee, and fingers clicking methodically over her mobile as she manages to handle the situation remotely. He's overwhelmingly grateful for her abilities at this moment, as his own capability to handle any scenario seems to be failing in the wake of his brother's utter lack of comprehension.

"You _cannot_ keep doing this, Sherlock," Mycroft grinds out, his voice sounding clipped and harsh even to his own ears. His fury is still simmering at the surface and he's suddenly so tired of it all.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're on about," Sherlock drawls back at him, his tone carefully bored and full of contemptuous rancor. Dr Watson shifts uncomfortably on the seat next to him, the only one in the car with the humanitarianism to feel awkward tension. Alice smirks slightly in Mycroft's periphery and he feels the knot in his chest ease a little.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about," Mycroft replies, allowing a note of steel to color his words. "It is unlike you to feign such obvious stupidity. I must be allowed to do my job if you are to continue on with your little consulting lark." Sherlock's eyes grow fierce and furious, and Mycroft allows himself a small smile of victory, knowing it doesn't reach his eyes and purposefully leaning into the open wound. Sherlock won't dignify him with an answer, Mycroft knows, but the furious twitch of his jaw is enough of a concession to go on. "Your unfortunate habit of running into dangerous situations headlong without proper thought is likely to get you killed, brother, and that I will not allow."

"Why must you always make things so difficult, Mycroft?" Sherlock huffs at him, the petulant expression of a child who knows he's done wrong, but is too stubborn to back down.

"I make your life considerably easier, Sherlock," Mycroft replies, a touch of startling honesty that Sherlock will not believe is sincere for an instant. Predictably, Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters something unintelligible under his breath. Dr Watson's forehead creases slightly and he glances at Mycroft briefly, eyes catching and holding for a long moment before he blinks slowly.

"I think Mycroft is right," Watson says carefully, and the momentary look of shocked betrayal Sherlock shoots towards him would be wonderfully amusing if the situation held any less gravity. Dr Watson seems to notice the look, however brief it is before Sherlock's face blanks into cold indifference, and he sighs affectionately. His tone is frank and honest when he speaks, however, and Mycroft is thrown by Watson's sudden allegiance: "You were entirely careless this time, Sherlock. Don't give me that look; you know you were. I'll not have you killed because you cannot be bothered to wait two seconds for sodding back up. What would have happened if I hadn’t turned up, hmm? You would have run your mouth some more and probably gotten a bullet in that marvelous brain of yours, you utter wanker."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, and Mycroft braces himself for the impact before an unparalleled miracle occurs: John Watson raises a well-practiced eyebrow at him and Sherlock's mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth. He exhales sharply through his nose and jerks his head towards the window, his jaw working as he clenches back the tirade of insults no doubt brewing just below the surface.  
  
Mycroft can feel his own eyebrows inching towards his hairline as he witnesses his brother curbing his instincts for the first time since their father was still alive. It seems he's underestimated Dr Watson a great deal indeed. Alice clears her throat softly and Mycroft's attention shifts immediately to her, but her eyes are still glued to her mobile, thumbs flying across the keys in the practiced pattern that means he's about to lose this argument if he delays any longer. He smiles superciliously and banks his irritation at his brother's uncanny ability to bring the worst out in him.

"Thank you, Dr Watson," Mycroft says eventually, sliding into his public official image with a slow blink. "It seems we share a common interest in keeping my brother reasonably safe and out of harm's way. I am grateful for your support."

Watson's brow creases again, the implication flying completely past his recognition, but Sherlock's head snaps around and the glare he produces could strip paint off a wall. Mycroft allows his smile to grow cold in warning, his real meaning visibly sinking into Sherlock's brain as the seconds tick by: _He was Queen and Country once, brother. Keep him if you will, but know it will not be easy._

Sherlock's jaw clenches again and he raises his head a fraction: challenge met and accepted. _Do your worst. He is mine, and always will be._

Mycroft smirks a little and wonders if Sherlock is even aware of how deep his feelings for his flatmate run. Alice shifts on the seat next to him and Mycroft's attention is diverted again. The corner of her lip twitches in understanding, and Mycroft feels his heart skip several beats as the knowledge sinks in. She is too clever by half, and he is irrationally proud of her superior intelligence.

Her eyes dart fleetingly towards his mobile before he hears it ping softly. Mycroft opens his latest email and finds that she is better than he ever expected: the mission was not a complete failure after all, and the official documents he had intended to collect this afternoon are currently speeding their way via courier to his office. He smiles in satisfaction and puts his mobile on the seat between them, feeling the fabric shift as she leans fractionally towards him in acknowledgement.

Mycroft is so distracted by the swell of her breasts increasing every time she inhales that he doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Sherlock clears his throat pointedly and rolls his eyes.

“For god’s sake, Mycroft. Just shag her already and be done with it,” Sherlock spits with his usual lack of tact. Mycroft feels the blood draining from his face and spares a discrete glance towards his companion. She is steadfastly looking at her mobile, but he can see a small smile lingering on the corner of her lips in the reflection of the window, and feels the initial panic recede just a bit.

“Sherlock,” Dr Watson’s voice sounds through the tension, all warning disapproval and affectionate exasperation. Sherlock huffs, but subsides; a phenomenon Mycroft still can’t quite wrap his mind around, despite its evidently frequent occurrence.

They are rid of them soon after, thankfully; dropping his ungrateful brother and his unnaturally faithful doctor at their doorstep with an imperious “ _Come along, John_.” Mycroft stares out the window at them as the car pulls from the curb, John’s clearly annoyed inflection obvious even without the benefit of sound. It’s Sherlock’s reaction that takes him by surprise, however. John leans up into his space, clearly speaking words of chastisement, and Sherlock’s face softens almost imperceptibly: the lines around his mouth and eyes creasing in apparent fondness, his lips curving slightly at John’s agitation. As Mycroft watches, Sherlock leans in even closer and says something into John’s ear, and then the two of them are huddled together on their doorstep in sudden fits of laughter. He’s never seen Sherlock’s face so free; the easy camaraderie between him and John so apparent the very air around them seems to shiver with it.

The car enters the roundabout and he loses sight of them, suddenly forced back into the uncomfortable silence stretching between himself and Alice. He glances towards her and finds her watching him with something that might be warmth in her gaze.

“Your brother seems very fond of Dr Watson,” she says, her tone light and unassuming, but Mycroft knows she can read more in one glance than most people can read in an entire dossier.

“Indeed he does,” Mycroft replies, wondering if they are going to talk about Sherlock’s more recent bout of tactless assumption.

“He’s good for him,” she mutters, and Mycroft is momentarily speechless. She slowly turns to face him, her eyes sparkling and beautiful and so very blue. “And for you.”

Mycroft blinks, wondering what on earth to say to that. As far as he’s concerned, his relationship with John Watson is nothing other than begrudging gratitude for keeping his brother relatively out of trouble. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds her giving him that wry look that says he’s being an idiot.

He closes his mouth and recalculates, realizing as he does that his relationship with Sherlock has never been healthier. Not since they were very small and he used to read stories to Sherlock, huddled under the covers with _Winnie the Pooh_ and _Gulliver’s Travels_ , when their parents would throw parties. The usual animosity is there between them, of course, but it seems more habitual now and less acerbic, as though Sherlock’s hostility is nothing more than practiced custom. The realization should be more startling, but Mycroft acknowledges that this tentative peace between himself and his brother has been building for more years than he’s recognized. Perhaps he owes John more respect than he’s been granting him, and mentally amends his internal file on the man. Dr Watson might indulge Sherlock his little games and occasional sociopathy, but in the end, John is more than just a side-kick to his brother, and Mycroft finds himself unaccountably grateful.

“As ever, your insight is unparalleled,” Mycroft says, dipping his head in her direction in salute. She smiles slowly at him, the sultry mask of _Alice_ dropping in an instant back into the more familiar _Anthea._ The result is beatific and devastatingly gorgeous.

Mycroft can feel that tension between them again; his pulse speeding up intolerably and a damning flush starting up the back of his neck. He clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness, but she reaches forward and places a hand on his knee. It is absolutely unprecedented, and Mycroft stills entirely for a moment, his blood seeming to thrum beneath his skin as he registers the warmth of her palm through the thin wool of his trousers.

“Thank you,” she whispers, holding his gaze with her own. “Sir,” she adds with a mischievous little quirk to her lips. Mycroft cannot help but stare at her mouth, closer now to him than she’s ever been before. He finds himself leaning fractionally towards her and catches himself just in time.

“Anthea,” he starts, but she squeezes his knee lightly and his brain seems to shut off completely. She seems to hesitate for a split second, and Mycroft is suddenly thrown. He has never seen her anything other than entirely confident and in complete control of any and every situation she’s ever been in.

“It’s Eleanor,” she murmurs, her eyes soft and wide, her lips so close to his he can smell faint whispers of earl grey and the peppermint from her lip balm.

“Eleanor,” he repeats, tasting the word as it rolls over his tongue. He’s absolutely sure without a doubt that it is her real name, and he silently acknowledges the trust she’s placed in him. She smiles faintly as she registers his understanding and leans forward the remaining distance.

The first brush of her lips is warm and soft and everything Mycroft had ever imagined it would be. He parts his own lips minutely and his heart seems to skip several beats when he feels her do the same. She tastes of mint and bergamot, a sweet and somehow spicy flavor mixed with adrenaline and oxytocin. He takes the chance and sweeps his tongue delicately across her bottom lip, reveling in the small gasp the action produces, and suddenly any hesitation vanishes violently. Mycroft finds himself with a lapful of _Eleanor_ , her long, long legs draped elegantly across his thighs, her delicious weight pushing him gently into the cushions of the seat.

The only remaining sound is that of a metal-tipped umbrella dropping carelessly to the floor.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock is twenty nine the first time he cheats death._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to the glorious Lori D for the beta. 
> 
> **Trigger warnings here: Drug usage, overdose, some violence, hints at possible/previous rape/non-con. I have added to the overall tags for this chapter, but know that they do not extend beyond chapter four, so if this isn't your thing, come back for chapter five.

_We were born without reason, we’ll die without meaning,_  
 _And the world will not shrug all that much at our passing._  
 _Yes you can try and try and try,_  
 _But no one ever makes it out alive._

**4.**

Sherlock is twenty nine the first time he cheats death. Cocaine was never meant to be more than an experiment, tried and tested within perfect scientific parameters. He hadn’t counted on the wonderful and heartbreaking _silence_.

The drug is wonderful and glorious, quieting the surrounding cacophony, and the residual feeling of calm and sharpness is immediately addicting. It feels like Sherlock’s mind is faster, sharper, cleaner with the added focus of cocaine. He can feel and see _everything_ ; every tiny detail, his senses even more acute than usual. It seems like he’s standing still among the spinning world, the rush of the mundane people around him fast forwarding to the important parts while he’s high. He feels like a goddamned super hero, and when the rush ebbs, he instantly aches for more.

Morphine, on the other hand, is a slow, cool burn in the base of his skull, dulling the world around him and making the blessed quiet fuzzy and comfortable enough to finally sleep. He can forget while on morphine; forget he’s a misunderstood genius, forget that he is achingly alone, forget the unsettling feeling of homicidal tendencies. He can shut out the rest of the world and just be content to sleep for days when he’s like this. He feels like he’s floating, comfortable and warm in a sea of fluffy blankets and squishy sofas; like his head is wrapped tightly in cotton wool, the soft sensations of his dulled senses making him feel almost normal by comparison.

It isn’t meant to be anything more than a distraction, or perhaps a mental aid. The drugs certainly aren’t supposed to be so beautifully comforting, nor laughably easy to obtain. He seeks them out in dirty alleyways and discreet formal clubs. He becomes friendly with London’s riotous underbelly, slipping in casually with the rest of the junkies until he knows every single safe point from Battersea to Stratford; from Highgate to Greenwich. He is immensely proud of the way he can slip about unnoticed, hiding in plain sight from everyone. Everyone, that is, save Mycroft.

He lives in grungy student digs and back alley restaurant car parks. He thrives on information and self-reliance, escaping from Cambridge barely a fortnight into his second year. He could sit exams tomorrow and pass them all with flying colors, and does not intend to waste his early twenties stuck inside gilded libraries and drafty corridors when he could be doing something _useful_.  

The danger comes with his insatiable curiosity, of course. There are always new formulas to try, new drugs to experience, new places to go. He cannot be expected to sit still with all of London calling to him, promising him adventure and novelty. It would be completely absurd to think he could resist the lure of temptation when all he has to do is walk out the back door and he’ll be _home_ , courting his favorite mistress: danger.

The drugs keep him grounded through the rest of his absurdly easy university experience; forging acquaintances with the rejects of society and upper crust playboys alike. He finds loyalty does indeed have a price, and it comes per gram and ounce. He learns to trust his own instincts and nothing else, learns the weight of infatuation and addiction like a second skin. He trades his accommodations for more, his intelligence for more, his body for _more_. He chases the adrenaline inherent with the sight of a full syringe. He lives for the first initial rush of pleasure and the epiphany of glorious clarity. He craves the simplicity of cocaine, the lull of morphine, and he aches for them both when they are momentarily unobtainable. He doesn’t realize how far he’s fallen until it is nearly too late.

He finds himself in a rough situation a few nights before his thirtieth birthday. He’s been unable to find a new source since Mycroft made his last disappear, and even his Homeless Network isn’t helping him anymore. It has become common knowledge that anyone who sells to Sherlock Holmes ends up eventually missing, and he’s finding it harder and harder to score. He casts his net wider, travelling into the very depths of London’s dark neighborhoods to find anyone with cocaine for sale. He still has a bit of morphine secreted away, but he’s grown weary of the way his days blend together while on morphine. Tonight, he wants the clarity and rush of cocaine above all else. There is a case he’s tagging along on, and Sergeant Lestrade has been particularly irritating lately, not allowing him to view the evidence until he’s “cleaned up his act, for god’s sake.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the memory and sets out.

He ignores the way his stomach cramps and the tremble in his hands, his skin feeling both itchy and hot even as he sheds his coat. He knows he has grown skeletal thin, the distressing way his bones are clearly visible nearly distracting enough to stop him from his search. He tries to recall the last time he ate anything, and comes up wanting. As soon as he’s acquired the proper dosage, he’ll stop for a sandwich somewhere.

His sources have led him to a dingy building on the very edge of Tottenham. He is too accustomed to this kind of situation to feel threatened. He knows he can reasonably talk his way out of any scenario, and if words won’t work, his fists have never failed him yet. His brain feels slow and sluggish by comparison, the allure of the drug already pulling him through the door.

He can tell immediately that this was a mistake. There are too many of them here, and he is too far into withdrawal for this to be much of a fight at all. He doesn’t even struggle as they take him down, folding in on himself to abate the worst of the blows. He can feel hands in his pockets, extracting his mobile and his wallet, his head fuzzy and slow as the symptoms of his withdrawal fully set in. He’s been in this situation before and when the beating finally stops, he spits blood onto the floor beneath him.

“Oh dear, it seems you’ve brought no money,” one of them drawls, all chav accent and Grolsch breath. Sherlock shudders, but holds his gaze steady from his prostrate positioning on the concrete. “Have you another form of payment, mate?”

The man nearest to him leers and Sherlock feels the knowledge of it crawl up his spine. He tries desperately to think around the sharp pain in his stomach, the taste of blood in his mouth and the overpowering _need_ for the drug thrumming through his veins. It is difficult, but he tries to focus.

“Surely buggering me in a derelict building is not the solution to your girlfriend’s cheating habits, nor the fact that your son is not actually yours,” he stammers, unable to stop the words from flowing as the pain rockets through his skull.

The man opposite him stands, his face dark and hard, and Sherlock tries to brace for the backhand as it cracks his head to the side. He can feel blood pooling at the corner of his mouth and spits again, feeling the warm liquid sink into the front of his ruined shirt.

“You’ve got no manners is your problem,” he growls, fisting his hand in Sherlock’s hair and yanking his face up. Sherlock feels his neck crack in protest and vaguely wonders if this is how he dies.

“He sure does have a pretty mouth, though, Dave,” the man behind him says and Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes at the predictability of it all. This also is familiar ground, although this is definitely the most violent encounter he’s had.

“I’ll bet he’s much more pliant after he’s had a bit of _persuasion_ ,” the man in front of him, Dave, chuckles and fishes into his pocket. He produces a syringe, thin and gleaming, and Sherlock tries valiantly to keep his face neutral. His mouth waters at the sight of the clear liquid and his trembling grows fiercer despite his efforts. The man holding his arms chuckles darkly and yanks Sherlock’s left sleeve up sharply.

“I don’t share needles,” Sherlock grunts around a mouthful of blood, visceral panic and overpowering eagerness making his head spin.

“Oh, this one’s new, lovie,” Dave coos at him, a sick parody of reassurance and stabs the newly uncapped needle into Sherlock’s arm, unloading the entire contents in a few painful, glorious seconds.

Sherlock’s head immediately reels: fire licking up his veins from the puncture site outward followed swiftly by the sensation of plunging his arm into an ice bath. HIs heart speeds up double time, his limbs feeling like dead weight while his torso feels like it’s floating too high up above the ground. It’s a sensation he’s felt before, but vowed to never deal in again.

“You’ve,” Sherlock tries to say, but it comes out slurred and jumbled, more a mix of consonants than an intelligible word, “You’ve given me a speedball.”

“Oh he’s good,” one of the other men says, sounding amused and even slightly impressed.

“I don’t do heroin,” Sherlock grits out, swallowing down against the panic that threatens up the back of his spine. His stomach roils and before he can register what’s happening, he vomits spectacularly onto the floor, his body shaking uncontrollably.

Dave chuckles lowly and Sherlock shudders at the telltale metallic sound of a belt being unfastened. There are three other men in the room to contend with, but Sherlock cannot think properly with his world spinning and tilting dangerously on its axis. He’s been given too much, the sensations transforming from a slow burn into a hot rush of sound and light, his body rocketing out of his control as he vomits again, noting the distinct red hue to it even through the blur of his vision.

“Jesus Phil, how much was in that needle?” one of them asks, a note of wary concern tinging his words. Sherlock falls forward as the man holding his arms lets go, landing in the mess, but unable to move beyond the twitching of his muscles.

“I dunno,” the man behind him says, defensive and panic stricken. “Dave gave me the bottle, so I loaded it up.”

“You put the entire thing in?” Dave shouts, and Sherlock briefly registers the words as his stomach clenches around nothing. “You fucking shit, Phil! That’s nearly five hundred quid!”

Sherlock can feel his heart pounding too hard and there’s an ache starting in his left arm that seems to be spreading down the entire side of his body. He registers cardiac arrest and tries to roll himself to the side, his breath coming in short pants as his swimming vision starts greying around the edges. He can hear a high pitched wailing sound, and wonders idly if it’s coming from him.

“Fuck!” one of the men yells and there’s a sharp blast of cold air from behind. Sherlock can smell London beyond and is quietly grateful that he will at least die within the arms of his city. He vaguely hears the quick footfalls of the men as they scatter into the night, his thoughts crawling to a halt as his mind goes finally, blissfully blank.

 

There is no white light, no tunnel, and certainly no pearly gates when Sherlock wakes. Instead there is a thick pounding in his head, a needle wedged into his arm between the more recent track marks, and a disapproving and furious Mycroft at the foot of his hospital bed. His head feels like it’s going to explode and his tongue tastes as though something furry has crawled inside his mouth and died a horrible, dry death. His whole body aches, and he winces against the sudden light that stabs through his retinas as Mycroft turns on the bedside lamp.

“What in god’s name were you thinking?” Mycroft grinds out, his voice clipped and dangerously calm. His face is blotchy with anger and the knuckles of his right hand where he grips his ubiquitous umbrella are tipped with white.

Sherlock attempts a scathing retort, but it comes out as a weak cough instead, his vocal chords straining with the effort to produce any sound at all. He winces as his ribs protest against the movement and leans back into his pillows, his eyes gummy and burning. Mycroft flings a cup at him, the ice chips sloshing over the side when it lands on Sherlock’s concave stomach. Sherlock heaves his right arm up, the one without the IV drip, and drags a few of the cold morsels over his parched lips, feeling as the cool water begins to melt instantly.

“I’ve let this continue on far too long, Sherlock,” Mycroft growls, turning on his heel and glaring out of the window. Sherlock can see his reflection in the glass, his eyes surprisingly sad despite his sharp tone. “I will not tolerate it any longer. Your days of youthful frivolities are over.”

He says it like a prison sentence, and Sherlock feels the need to rebel sharply override his body’s natural preventative instincts. He shifts up on the mattress, coughs again, and manages to produce a weak, “Mycroft…”

“No, Sherlock. Your say in this is forfeit. You will not spend another birthday in hospital ever again, do you understand me?”

Sherlock wants to scream, he wants to tell Mycroft he doesn’t need his help, and that he can handle this all on his own, but his body will not allow it. The tremors in his limbs are subtle, but unyielding, and his blood feels thin and watery in his veins. He takes stock of the rest of his body and finds he cannot recall ever feeling so indescribably _empty_ before. He’s aware of how close he’s come to death, and is spitefully grateful that he has not yet submitted to that particular indignity. He watches as Mycroft breathes heavily through his nose, his jaw set in grim determination and his eyes as hard and cold as steel. Sherlock inwardly sighs and silently concedes that Mycroft may have a point, much as he is loath to admit it.

“I am sorry,” he finally whispers, his too-thin torso quivering with the effort to hold himself upright. Mycroft’s expression softens just a bit and he comes to stand closer to the bed.

“I have made arrangements for you at Castle Craig.” Sherlock winces, but nods, for once registering his body’s needs above his desires.

“If you deem it necessary,” he tries to spit, but it comes out sounding more like weary resignation.

“Oh, I do not think there is any doubt of that,” Mycroft drawls, his sharp eyes seeming to bore holes through Sherlock’s weakened skull. He swings his umbrella idly back and forth before finally coming to sit on the uncomfortable looking plastic chair next to the bed.

“You must be more careful, brother,” Mycroft says eventually, staring at tiles between his feet, and he sounds weary and much older than his years. “I may not always be there to rescue you.”

“Perish the thought,” Sherlock whispers and almost flinches at the fond edge his tone produces. Mycroft’s gaze lifts sharply and he simply looks at Sherlock for a few slow breaths, a lifetime of mistrust and competitive hostility stretching between them until a slow smile gently curls the edges of Mycroft’s lips. Sherlock finds he is returning the gesture without conscious thought, and it feels like a new beginning.

 

They sit there together in surprisingly comfortable silence until Sherlock finally falls asleep. When he wakes again, Mycroft is gone, but there is a sleek black umbrella leaning casually up against the edge of Sherlock’s bed. He slides his cold fingers over the wood of the handle and finds himself smiling in spite of himself.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John is forty years old the first time he fancies himself in love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Lori D for the awkward beta :D
> 
> We're starting to get into some slash here, folks, so if it's not your thing, you should probably abandon ship.

_We're all broken boys and girls, at heart,  
Come together fall apart._

**5.**

John is forty years old the first time he fancies himself in love. He has always thought it would be so simple: falling in love. He would find a wonderful woman who understood him and loved him, despite his own personal demons. They would get married, maybe raise a family in Surrey or Hampshire. When it happens, however, John is completely unprepared.

He still gets the giddy urge to giggle inappropriately, happiness and serotonin seeping through his cerebral cortex fast enough to make his head spin. He still feels the absolute and undeniable _need_ to be closer to the object of his desires. He still gets that ache beneath his ribs whenever he feels he’s done something terribly wrong, or if he’s away for too long, or if the love of his life completely ignores him for absolutely no reason. He still feels the swooping sensations in his midriff where he’d always imagined they’d be, but the rest of the scenario is so completely off track that he’s not even sure where to begin.

Sherlock is not at all the way he imagined the love of his life would look. First of all, there’s the definite and unmistakable fact that he’s a _man_. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but John had never fancied himself the type, if he’s honest. Then there’s the fact that Sherlock is the most infuriatingly ridiculous man he’s ever met in his life. John spends most of his time in a state of constant exasperation, and although he loves Sherlock—really _loves_ him—there are only so many stray body parts in the fridge one man should need to endure.

The tragedy of the scenario is that John almost realizes that he’s in love too late. As it happens, he doesn’t even get the chance to stumble through months of awkward longing, days and weeks where every little gesture feels like a message or an overtly loud declaration, where his self-awareness and over analyzing drives him near mad. He doesn’t have the luxury of categorizing the way Sherlock smells when he’s just out of the shower versus when he’s just out of bed in the morning, or when he’s just come from a chase, adrenaline and sweat pouring off of him in thick waves. He doesn’t have the pleasure of worrying about his gestures being misinterpreted, of concerning himself over the dread of if his feelings are entirely unrequited.

In fact, John only fully realizes the depth of his feelings for his best mate slash flatmate slash object of his every waking desire on the very eve of his death. It happens, just like that, in the middle of running away from questionable gunfire, chained at the wrist to this _impossible_ man, whom he would follow into the very depths of Hell and back without even a questioning glance. As Sherlock mounts the skip and hurdles himself over the fence, John realizes that he is well and truly fucked, and not just because his shorter legs can’t make the leap in quite the gazelle-like grace as his obnoxiously limber flatmate.

He digs his fingers into the thick wool of Sherlock’s coat and drags him forward, faces merely inches apart, and somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice is screaming _Kiss me. Just kiss me, please._ Sherlock’s face is so close to his, John can feel the warm puffs of air against his cheeks, count with absolute precision each of his long, long eyelashes. John’s gaze strays down for a moment to take in the flush swell of plush lips. He feels his face heating in what he hopes looks like agitation, while what feels like a tiny, fluttery creature beats hard against the inside of his ribs. _Please kiss me_ , he thinks loudly, _Kiss me. I love you_. What he says is something entirely different, but not dissimilar. Not in the slightest.

Sitting side-by-side in Kitty Riley’s flat, squished onto the small and over stuffed sofa, John can’t help the twitch in his fingers. He can feel the heat of Sherlock’s thigh through layers of wool and cotton. He finds his attention completely arrested by the low breathing of the utterly distracted man next to him. John is concerned about the fallout, of the consequences and sheer enormity of the terrible cock-up Sherlock seems to have landed himself in this time. He can feel the panic ebb and flow with the tides of his breath every time he even thinks the word _Moriarty_.

Sherlock jerks in agitation, his twitching causing John’s arm to shift by proxy. It’s nearly pitch black in the flat, and John can feel all the tension of the day stealing over them like a thick blanket. The metal is slightly chafing John’s wrist, and he wonders at the fact that Sherlock hasn’t picked the lock yet. Sherlock looks a million miles away, and John recognizes the sight of him lost to the halls of his “mind palace.” John’s own mind is spinning in a thousand different directions, his emotions roiling with each new panic-stricken thought.

He’d had that gut feeling that something horrible was coming for them, for _Sherlock_ , and he hates that he was right. The feeling of overwhelming concern is warring violently with the euphoria of recently discovered love. John’s pulse is loud in his ears and he feels the small square of denim that brushes against Sherlock’s fine wool trousers acutely as it warms with residual body heat. Sherlock shifts again, running his long, graceful fingers across his bottom lip in contemplation.

John feels the wrench in his gut as he stares at that plump bottom lip, suddenly wanting nothing more than to press his mouth there and taste. It is a wildly inappropriate thought, especially here and now. This is the definition of _neither the time, nor the place_ , and John tries desperately to force his thoughts into order. He has to focus if they’re ever going to get out of this intact.

“John,” Sherlock mutters eventually, his voice startlingly loud in the thick and oppressive silence. John can hear him swallow, that long, elegant throat working around his Adam’s apple, and John drags his focus back yet again. “John, I fear this is not going to end well.”

John’s thoughts immediately align themselves enough to register Sherlock’s uncustomary hesitation. “How exactly do you mean?” he asks, voice thick and burdened with worry.

He can sense Sherlock’s agitation, the stiffness in his arm as he cracks his neck and takes a deep, slightly stuttered breath. “Whatever information Ms Riley has obtained seems to have come from an unfortunately reliable source. No, I don’t know who her source is,” he continues, correctly reading John’s question before he even has the chance to ask, “Though I do hope my suspicions are incorrect.”

The grim tone registers somewhere in the back of John’s brain and he wracks his memories; the niggling sensation of information just out of his reach beginning to give him a headache.  He knows he should just keep his stupid, besotted mouth shut and leave well enough alone, but all he can hear is his racing pulse in his ears and all he can feel is the sensation of imminent doom descending.

“Sherlock,” he starts, clearing his throat when the name comes out harsher than he intended. “Whatever happens-- whatever it is you’re concerned about, we’ll get through this. Lestrade will come round, the Yard will apologize, Moriarty will pay for his slander, and we can go home and have a cuppa, OK?” John’s voice cracks a little at the end, and before he can stop himself, he feels his littlest finger brush against Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock’s huff of air is devastating, the attempt at amusement all the more broken for the defeated tension surrounding the usually unflappable man. John takes the chance and stretches the rest of his fingers out, tentatively curling his hand over the back of Sherlock’s where it rests on the detective’s knee. He squeezes once in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, and waits. It takes too long, and John moves away, mortified. Just before he can get too far, though, Sherlock’s fingers twist and his hand turns over, sliding his palm delicately across John’s. John can’t help the shudder that travels through his whole arm at the contact, and he silently thanks the surrounding darkness which covers his absurd blush.

Sherlock’s fingers absently slide between his and tangle together in such a casually intimate way that John wonders at how natural it feels. He can feel his pulse, thick and heavy on the back of his tongue and marvels at the fact that Sherlock can’t seem to hear it in the still silent room. He belatedly realizes that he’s forgotten how to breathe and sucks in a great lungful of air, cursing the sound that seems to echo through the room. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Sherlock has turned his head and is staring at him through the darkness, and John tries desperately to calm himself. They’re only holding hands for christ’s sake.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, all of his laser-beam focus suddenly honed in directly on John’s face. John’s fingers tighten reflexively and he hears the impossible sound of Sherlock’s breath catching. He is looming closer, John realizes, and panic and excitement start racing through him: a chemical soup of endorphins and adrenaline, serotonin and oxytocin, and John can practically taste the anticipation. He can feel Sherlock’s breath on his face again, the sensations recalled clearly from less than an hour ago. John’s eyelids fall closed and he parts his lips, heart beating violently against his ribs.

A rattle of keys, the sound of footfalls on the stairs, the hesitating hovering of a body outside the door. Sherlock pulls sharply away, his curls dancing as he shakes his head as though to clear it. John looks away, his eyes squinting in the sudden light, his hand falling to his own knee as Sherlock’s fingers rip themselves away. The disappointment is tangible, and John feels guilt and yearning slide hot and heavy into his gut.

It isn’t until he’s standing alone on the damp pavement watching as Sherlock’s taxi speeds away from him that he realizes he may have just fucked this up entirely.

The gnawing longing and heat of embarrassed arousal are warring with the deep-seated panic, a chemical sludge chipping away at the edges of his patience, and when he gets the call regarding Mrs Hudson’s injury, he loses his head completely. Sherlock’s dismissal is profound, and the remembrance of the almost-kiss in that damned flat stabs through John like a knife. How could he ever think this man, this _machine_ in front of him might possibly give a damn about him? His anger grounds him all the way back to Baker Street, burning like a talisman against the tumult of his emotions.

John only realizes how utterly he’s failed when he sees Mrs Hudson’s smiling face in the doorway, the world seeming to stop completely as his heart stalls out. He can feel the blood draining from his face, his head suddenly dizzy and grey as the thoughts come crashing back through him.

“Oh my god,” he breathes and runs back down the street. Time seems to slow, his racing heart skipping double time as he urges the taxi forward, the seed of fear blooming harsh and nauseating in the pit of his stomach. He’s sure without a doubt that Sherlock has sent him away, yet again, to deal with Moriarty on his own, only this time, John will not be there by accident, strapped into a vest laden with semtex and insanity.

The rest of what follows seems to simultaneously blur together and etch itself permanently into John’s skull with sickening clarity. Time comes in snatches of memory and flashes of sensation: the taxi, the pavement, the roof, the helplessness, Sherlock falling, the nausea, the cyclist, the drowning, the sickness, the loss, the guilt, the Yard, the profound sense of breaking, and finally, the quiet numbness. He cannot focus his thoughts around the single notion filling his brain in neon flashing lights: _I loved you. I loved you and I never told you. I loved you and you’ll never know._

He feels more broken than he ever has before. The bullet that sent him home didn’t leave this much damage. His father’s death didn’t feel this painful, his mother’s hadn’t been this acute. John finally found himself in love, and he’d never even had the chance to tell Sherlock.

“There’s stuff you wanted to say, but didn’t say it,” Ella says quietly, barely audible over the rain pattering against the windows.

“Yeah.”

“Say it now.” Her eyes are sharp and coaxing, as though she already knows how deep John’s feelings were. As though she’s just waiting to hear confirmation of her diagnosis. As though it is as easy as that.

“No,” John chokes out, his voice breaking. “Sorry. I can’t.”

He cannot sit here and pretend to speak to someone who will never hear him again, who will never answer in that melodious baritone, who will never say his name again in that posh drawl that left him breathless and aching. He will not sit here and belittle the words he should have spoken by saying them to someone who will never understand.

John is worried his heart will actually shrivel up and die, the empty cavity of his chest echoing with a longing never fulfilled. He doesn’t know how to be normal without Sherlock. He doesn’t _want_ to find a life without Sherlock, some part of him refusing to believe he’s gone. He begins to find solace in the everyday mundane: in shopping at Tesco, at his hours spent at the surgery, at his seemingly endless sessions with Ella. This isn’t the life he wants, but he finds he’s able to find a rhythm again, much as it pains him to realize.

He finally talks himself into going to Sherlock’s grave one more time, and finds he is unable to say goodbye. He ends up on his knees in the dirt, face pressed into the back of his hand as it rests against the cold, black stone. He doesn’t cry. There are no more tears left in his body. Instead he rests there and tries to remember how to breathe, all of his considerable strength seeming to buckle and shatter beneath the weight of his aching heart.

He stays there for a long time, inhaling the cold, damp air and mustering up enough courage to walk away. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he finally manages to get shakily to his feet, dusting off the brown patches of earth from his knees.

He doesn’t say goodbye. He finds he is unable to speak at all. Instead he merely touches his fingers to his lips and brushes them along the hard edge of the stone, willing himself to feel some kind of closure.

All he feels is echoing emptiness.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock is thirty six the first time he realizes he's made a grave error of judgement._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Lori D and scarletcurls for their collective beta work!

_And in Battersea power station, the Fisher King_   
_Ponders on his ruin, among many other things._

_He folds his broken hands,_   
_Surveys his barren lands,_   
_And prays for hope to whisper in the wind._

**6.**

Sherlock is thirty six the first time he realizes he’s made a grave error of judgment.

It is completely intolerable, this constant ache in his chest. He can barely keep himself from running forward at the graveyard, the hurt and sheer _pain_ radiating from John completely overwhelming in its vehemence. He escapes to Prague for a while, following the trail of Moriarty's loyalist lieutenant. Colonel Sebastian Moran is a difficult man to track: he is clever and cunning, brutal and completely free of remorse. Sherlock is cleverer and even more cunning, following close behind in Moran’s wake as he begins to disassemble Moriarty’s vast network of criminal disorder.

Sherlock lives through the empty hours in remote stake out locations, desperately wishing he could remember how to do this alone without the persistent feeling that he’s missing something incredibly vital. He slaloms through towns and cities, barely registering the indecipherable blur of too much information, trying to dispel the feeling of echoing emptiness somewhere behind his solar plexus.

Before, this would have been exciting. Before, he would have reveled in the idea of tracking a known sniper across the continent, using every clever trick in his arsenal to outwit and outsmart the man. Before, he would have given anything for the constant flow of information, full of interesting facts and data points, the perpetual spin of a puzzle yet to be solved buzzing in his ears. Now, though; now he’s barely fighting to keep going. He hasn’t been _bored_ in ages, Moriarty’s network proving more than enough of a distraction from the usual everyday struggle to maintain in control of his restless mind; but he is listless, bone-weary of the excessive silence, the cold, empty rooms that echo too loudly when he deduces aloud.

He is overly aware of the ringing silence where a familiar _brilliant_ or _amazing_ should be. He knows John is not here, and yet he can’t shake the ludicrous expectation that he might turn up one day, finally surprising Sherlock in the way only John Watson can. He moves through cities and countries, indifferent to the changing landscape and biting cold of unfamiliar territories. He holds tight to the thought that John is _safe_ in London, or at least as safe as he can be with the grief doubling him over in public parks and the siren song if his illegal Sig. Sherlock had tried to warn Mycroft, had told him to confiscate the weapon immediately, but Mycroft had pointed out that such action would reek of suspicion and Sherlock had reluctantly agreed.

Now he wonders if John would even notice the suspicious nature of the removal over the blind rage he knows the man would feel instead. Sherlock feels as though there is a great ticking clock hovering over his head: every step away from John feeling like another tick closer to John’s inevitable destruction. He can’t leave this much longer and he knows it. This whole business is taking longer than he ever anticipated, and the fear that he is running out of precious time tastes foul and acrid in his lungs.

When Moran changes direction and begins moving ever closer to London, Sherlock is both exhilarated and terrified. Moran is smart, and he obviously knows someone is picking off the rest of the network one by one, though it has taken him months to realize that all the suspicious coincidences are related. Sherlock feels the dread sink lower and lower in his gut with every train ride nearer to his beloved city. He’s not entirely sure he can stomach the sight of John after so long. The worried edges of his memory are frayed and chipped, and he is concerned John will not be the same person he left behind: how could he be? It is absurd to think that John will not have changed. It’s been eighteen months.

The thought is completely startling, and Sherlock finds himself caught immobile on a train platform in Bristol. He’s been gone eighteen months. A year and a half of nicotine and insomnia, of malnutrition and heartache, of desperately wanting to be home, yet repelled by his own faulty logic. Five hundred and forty seven days of aching emptiness, of a longing so sharp and acute he’s actually vomited, of waking up to cold and lonely rooms without the familiar sounds of another person-- without _John_.

Sherlock is suddenly and violently terrified. How can he ever face John after what he’s done? How can John ever forgive him? How could he possibly think John would ever see what he’s done as anything other than a selfish act of unforgivable betrayal? The thought sits dark and hard in the pit of his stomach and he has to force his feet to move.

What if John has forgotten him? What if he’s been gone too long and John is too far out of his reach? What if his little magic trick has harmed their relationship irrevocably, and John will not see him, will not allow him to explain? Sherlock shakes his head, willing the panic to recede enough to complete this one final task. John is safe, and even if he will not see Sherlock ever again, it has all been worth it to keep John alive and breathing, to keep him in this world. Sherlock’s heart clenches around the thought.

The call comes a mere two hours after he steps foot on London soil. Sherlock jumps slightly at the buzzing in his pocket. His mobile has been deactivated for over a year now, and the familiar vibrations send a thrill of fear and adrenaline through his system. Hesitating, he plucks the device out of his jacket and rolls his eyes at the display.

“Mycroft,” he bites out, irrational disappointment sliding bitterly against his tongue.

“Is this entirely wise, brother?” Mycroft’s supercilious tones are underlain with a steely note Sherlock has come to despise. He restlessly digs in his pocket for a cigarette, wanting something stronger. Nicotine will have to suffice.

Sherlock is stubbornly silent. He hears Mycroft sigh on the other end of the line and fights the urge to chuck the mobile against the pavement. “He will not take kindly to your return,” Mycroft finally says, warning and hesitation clearly evident in his voice.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replies, forcing his voice into casual boredom, though his stomach clenches in acknowledgement. Of course he knows John’s reaction is not going to be pleasant.

“Tread carefully, Sherlock,” Mycroft intones steadily. “It would not do to rush this after all the work you’ve done.”

Loathe as he is to admit it, even to himself, Mycroft is probably right. The temptation is too strong, though. The idea that he could be within reach of John, could breathe his air again is too irresistible to ignore. He clenches his jaw against the vile words attempting to spill forth and turns about, looking for the inevitable CCTV camera that will no doubt be honed directly on him.

He finds the little lens strangely comforting, though he’s careful not to show it. He glares at the camera and says, deliberately slowly: “I will not fuck this up, Mycroft. He will not see me.”

 

John looks markedly better. Something is different, and Sherlock hates it. He no longer carries the red-rim of unendurable pain around his eyes, though his right leg still stutters occasionally.  He looks… _good_. Healthy. He walks with a particular bounce in his step that means he’s _happy_ and content with life. And for the first time in thirteen thousand hours, Sherlock second guesses his assessment.

He feels his world shift as John walks right past him, no longer looking around skips and into shop windows to see if Sherlock is there. He knows it used to be John’s usual practice. Mycroft isn’t the only one with eyes all over the city. The surreptitious notes and scrawled missives on filthy bits of paper from his Homeless Network were sometimes the only things keeping him alive. The idea that John was there, in London, just waiting for him to come home… it kept him motivated to survive.

The fact that the notes stopped entirely after a period was disappointing, but unsurprising. Sherlock had made himself exceedingly difficult to track, after all, and he couldn’t expect them to continue indefinitely with no hint of a reply. He had miscalculated. It never even occurred to him that the messages might have stopped in order to spare his feelings.

Now, as he watches John enter into a little cafe and seat himself across from a petite blonde woman with whom he is obviously familiar, Sherlock realizes he’s been gone far too long.

She is pretty, this Mary Morstan. And kind and generous and understanding and she takes no shame in expressing her feelings outwardly and overtly. She is everything Sherlock is not, and the idea rankles against his wounded pride. It _hurts_ in ways it should not, and despite his own self-discipline, his own recoil at the idea that his emotions have any control over his being, he feels something small beneath his ribs shrivel and die. It’s more than jealousy; it’s _loss_. Sherlock has lost John as much as John lost Sherlock eighteen months ago, the first time he attempted to balance the weight of his decision against his intellect and found himself wanting.

He watches John silently from street corners, the thrill in the possibility of being seen quickly snuffed out by the overwhelming disappointment when John completely ignores him. There was a time, _before_ , when nothing could hide him from John’s keen gaze. Now, it seems John has moved on, the blip on his radar the used to be Sherlock Holmes completely overridden by his relationship with Mary.

It is uncomfortable, this feeling of guilt and despair. Most of Sherlock knows this is the most desirable outcome: John is clearly healthy and whole, living the life Sherlock fought so hard for him to keep. There’s a small, juvenile part of him, though, that wails about the unfairness of the situation. He couldn’t possibly have expected John to dwell overlong on a man he thought dead. It would be completely ridiculous to believe he would mourn Sherlock forever, that he would be stuck in the past, just as Sherlock has been the past year and a half. Did he really expect to come home and have everything pick up exactly where it had left off?

The honest answer is yes. Irrational and unrealistic as it is, Sherlock had hoped John might wait for him, might hold out just a little while longer before he forgot him completely. Instead, he has built a new life: one where Sherlock clearly has no part, and it _hurts_.

Moran is a difficult man to catch, but Sherlock finally corners him in the abandoned building across from 221 Baker Street. They are too close for comfort; too close to the only real home Sherlock has ever known. Even though he knows John doesn’t live there anymore, it still puts him on edge, as though Moran might know something Sherlock doesn’t; an absurd feeling that undercuts everything he knows about himself.

Moran dies with an acute sense of anticlimax, the bullet from Sherlock’s Browning oddly muffled in the derelict room. The sense of relief Sherlock should feel at his death is muted by the insatiable need to find John, to tell him it’s over, that he’s back and will never leave him again. It’s an absurd reaction, and he knows he cannot simply walk up to John and expect to explain himself. This is a game-changing move that will require the most careful orchestration, more attention and planning than his entire time away. He gets one chance and one chance only to repair his relationship with John, and he will not blunder into it with his previous thoughtlessness.

Sherlock has learned in his time away: he has learned patience and hesitation, he has learned the value of friendship and the advantage in cultivating relationships. He’s learned and re-learned the definition of the word _loss_ in every sense of the term, and has grown because of it. He will exhibit a little more patience and restraint in order to come out on top in the end. He has changed reluctantly, but necessarily, and he only hopes John is willing to take him in this new form.

He watches the life drain out of Moran’s eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m coming for you, John,” he whispers aloud to the silent room. “Please take me back.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John is forty two years old the first time he gets married._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lori D and scarletcurls for the quick beta :)

_Lovers don't be sparing with the truth;_  
 _Break their hearts if that's what you must do._  
 _Fill them with remorse, tinged with hope of course,_  
 _And let their baser instincts pull them through._

 

**7.**

John is forty two years old the first time he gets married. It is a beautiful ceremony, full of love and life and celebration, just as he’d always imagined it would be. Mary is a wonderful woman; she understands him and completes him in ways he thought he’d never obtain, not in this lifetime. She has a witty, wry sense of humor and a wicked streak in bed that makes him blush if he thinks about it in polite company. She calls him brave for his war efforts and calms him in ways he thought were lost long ago. She is absolutely perfect, and she shines like a beacon on their wedding day: gorgeous in an understated white dress, her short blonde hair styled simply and elegantly. He can barely breathe when she walks through the door, his heart so overwhelmed with love that he actually feels a lump form in his throat.

He sees Sherlock shift in his peripheral vision, somehow still seeming to look stiff in the formal black tuxedo, despite his frequent use of formal clothing, and feels the lump harden. He knew it would be hard, to have Sherlock next to him at the altar as he binds himself irrevocably to someone else, but the guilt and vague sense of unease are completely unwelcome. John pushes them back into the very depths of his consciousness and focuses back on Mary, who looks positively radiant and who _loves him back_.

When he’d asked Sherlock to be his best man, he saw something between them shiver and retreat. He had wanted the gesture to be welcoming; to prove to Sherlock that he has in fact forgiven him as best he can, that there is still a place in his new life for Sherlock Holmes. However, looking back, it seems like the cruelest thing he could have done to both of them. He wars with himself constantly: flipping between aching happiness that Sherlock is back, and bitter resentment that he’d interfered with John’s life, yet again, right when things had seemed to be improving for him.

Sherlock looks better today, John notes absently. He’s gotten some of his color back, and his sharp cheekbones no longer look like they’re going to pierce through the skin. Mrs Hudson’s doing, no doubt. John is aware that Sherlock has moved back into Baker Street, though he not yet gone there himself. There are too many memories, too many feelings lurking there amongst the atrocious wallpaper and cluttered sitting room. He doesn’t feel as though he belongs to that life anymore, and he’s not sure if he’s happy about that feeling.

He can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, burning through the back of his skull as he speaks the words that tie him to Mary for the rest of his days. She is absolutely glowing, and despite the guilt and hesitant fear creeping around in his abdomen, he feels her happiness resonating within him. He leans forward to kiss her, sealing his commitment in front of all of his friends and family, and tries desperately not to think about a darkened flat nearly two years ago, the bite of metal digging into his wrist and the warm puffs of air tasting vaguely of nicotine, London rain and danger filtering across his lips. He closes his eyes and focuses on Mary, and absolutely does not picture anyone else.

He is angry at the memories that now refuse to be tamped down. He had gotten so used to suppressing anything to do with Sherlock that he’d felt almost healed. It took a long, _long_ time, but he’d eventually learned not to flinch whenever Sherlock’s name was spoken. He’d learned how to breathe around the pain every time he had to go near St. Bart’s. He’d grown accustomed to the aching emptiness in his chest, to the point where he could almost ignore it. Then he’d met Mary, and he’d learned to love again; he’d learned to live and thrive, and even if the distant memories sometimes woke him in the middle of the night, it was becoming a less frequent occurrence, and it seemed to hurt a little less each time.

Now, as he holds his wife’s hand and they are introduced to the world at large as Mr & Mrs John and Mary Watson, he cannot regret this decision, however much it seems to rip him in two. He refuses to let his memories dampen his happiness, not today. He kisses Mary again, feeling her soft lips against his and taking her slim weight in his arms, deliberately posing for all the flashing iPhones, Androids, and Mrs Hudson’s ancient looking film camera. Mary laughs against his lips: a bright, cheerful sound that never fails to ground him.

“I love you,” he whispers against her mouth, and feels her smile widen.

He straightens and lifts their joined hands, glancing around at all their friends and family, seeing nothing but love and affection reflecting back at him, and feels fully _happy_ for the first time in years. Smiling broadly, he shoots a glance over his shoulder and feels his heart stutter.

Sherlock is smiling and clapping with everyone else, doing his very best to show congratulations and joy, but John recognizes the look of utter devastation behind his eyes. He’s seen it before: every day in the mirror since Sherlock jumped from that rooftop. It is the haunted look of someone who has lost absolutely everything, and it breaks John’s heart. He feels his own smile freeze, his chest seeming to collapse in on itself for one disastrous moment, and then Mary is tugging on his hand, and they are running down the aisle amidst floating bubbles and flashing cameras, the sick churning feeling in his gut overridden by the overwhelming flood of good wishes and happy feelings.

John knows he will love Mary for the rest of his life, but he cannot help but feel as though he’s left his heart up at that alter, staring back at him with pale, mercurial eyes.

 

The reception is lovely; Mary floating around the restaurant like a bird of paradise, thanking everyone and dancing with all the guests. John watches from the head table, his eyes soft as he regards her. She truly is a remarkable woman, and he is incredibly lucky to have found her. He feels the ache in his chest ease a little as she turns and smiles beatifically at him, John laughing at her fake moue of despair as he declines her offer to dance. She smiles and shakes her head at him, shrugging and grabbing Mike Stamford instead.

John wishes he wasn’t aware of the fact that Sherlock is standing just outside the restaurant doors, cigarette perched delicately between two of his elegant fingers, staring out at London’s skyline. Taking a deep breath, John stands and limps to the door, pushing it open with steady hands and inhaling the intoxicating scent of London rain, old leather, tobacco and slightly spiced aftershave. He’s missed that smell, and the sense memory is harsh and unyielding.

The door swings closed behind him and Sherlock doesn’t even flinch. He takes another drag on his cigarette and exhales slowly, watching the smoke as it dances through the thick air before dissipating.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, not looking around.

It is falsely pleasant and has too much buoyancy to be real, and John doesn’t know quite what to say. He settles on: “Thanks.”

They stand there for a minute or two, the silence between them uncomfortable and strained. John finally clears his throat. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and it feels like he’s talking about much more than the wedding. Sherlock nods in acknowledgement and flicks the end of his cigarette. The silence between them grows awkward again, and John feels his heart clench with every ticking second. It used to be so easy with the two of them, and now it feels broken and heavy, as though a giant wrecking ball has come between them and decimated their connection into mere shards of what they once were.

“Are you alright?” John asks, because he’s seen the set of Sherlock’s shoulders slump the way they are doing now, and he knows the tension between them is far from comforting. Sherlock drops his cigarette to the ground and traps it beneath his Yves St Laurent, crushing the smoldering end against the slightly damp concrete. He turns, and John is suddenly breathless, all that focus and sharpness suddenly directed at him. It feels like a head rush of adrenaline and apprehension.

“She makes you happy,” Sherlock says, his voice like liquid silk, though his eyes are fierce and analytical.

“Yes,” John whispers, because it’s true.

“Then I am fine.”

They stand there, eyes locked for what seems like a lifetime. John counts the heartbeats between them, air shivering with unspoken words. Finally, Sherlock turns and moves to leave, not towards the overcrowded and cheerful looking restaurant, but off towards the stairs that will lead him to the pavement, and eventually home. John feels panic rise in his chest, the acrid taste of it swelling against the back of his throat. He catches Sherlock’s sleeve and tugs him back around.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, not entirely sure he meant to say it.

“John,” Sherlock says, and his face softens; the harsh lines around his eyes and mouth receding into something far more familiar, and John feels the swoop in his stomach as though he’s thrown himself off a precipice.

“You were gone, and I was so alone,” John splutters, the words rushing out like a great wave: uncontrollable and crushing. “I couldn’t function, I couldn’t sleep. I thought I would die without you, Sherlock, and then Mary came along and it was like I’d finally learned how to breathe again. But she can never replace you. You know that, yeah? She’ll never be _you_ , Sherlock.”

“John, I…” Sherlock looks a bit panicked, and a bit relieved all at once and John feels the inappropriate laughter start to bubble up in his chest.

“I love her, Sherlock. I really, truly do. And I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” He is babbling now and he knows it, but the words don’t seem to want to stop. Sherlock huffs out a sound that might be _idiot_ and draws him forward, folding his impossibly long arms around John’s back and cradling him close. John feels the weight of it settle across his shoulders, and fights the urge to bury his face in Sherlock’s coat collar and never leave. He feels simultaneously as though he’s shattering apart, and finally, blessedly whole.

He’s not sure how long Sherlock holds him there, the long fingers of one large hand smoothing over his shoulder blades, their breath synchronizing until every inhale pushes them closer, and each exhale feels like a chasm between them. It should be awkward, with all the recent tension between them thick and heavy as London fog, but it isn’t. They’ve never embraced like this: the casual brushes and lingering touches of long ago doing nothing to prepare John for the heat of Sherlock’s skin seeping up through his clothing, for the scent of him so strong and overpowering John thinks he’ll never be able to smell anything else ever again. It is comforting and heart wrenching all at once, and John feels an embarrassing sob catch at the back of his throat.

“I missed you,” John whispers into soft wool and even softer cashmere. He feels Sherlock’s arms tighten a fraction, and fights to keep the tears from his voice. “Christ, I missed you so much.”

“John,” Sherlock mutters into the top of his head, his obnoxiously full lips catching against John’s hair. John thinks he feels a catch in Sherlock’s breath as he stutters an exhale. “I missed you as well.”

It takes too long, but when Sherlock finally loosens his hold and pulls away, it’s all John can do not to shout at him to never let go. John feels the splinters of his heart reforming, the love laid dormant for so long stirring back into life, and it sends a thrill of panic through him. He suddenly remembers that they are standing outside the doors of his _wedding reception_ and feels all the color drain from his face. Sherlock’s brow furrows in concern for a moment before recognition clearly registers and his face morphs into weary resignation.

“Go back, John,” he intones, low and soft in the muggy air. “Celebrate. Today is for you, and for Mary.”

He sends John a small smile that seems to encompass a myriad of emotions so complicated John can’t decipher them all before they are covered over with the familiar mask of cool indifference. He turns to leave again, and this time John lets him go, watching with something that feels a little like shell-shock as Sherlock flicks a lighter and inhales on a new cigarette, slipping the rest of the pack back into his pocket and striding away in his usual long-legged grace.

He doesn’t look back.

The door opens behind John and the noise from the room sounds loud and chaotic after the stillness of the street.

“Everything alright?” Mary says, sliding her arms around John’s middle and leaning her weight against his back. He can feel the beading of her dress pressing through his suit coat and smiles despite the ache in his chest as he watches Sherlock walk away. Mary’s perfume is delicate and floral, and the warmth of her skin drenches his back as he sinks into her embrace. He can feel the love and comfort she is offering, and allows himself to drift back into happiness, surrounded as he is by those he loves.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think it actually is.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock is forty years old the first time he finally realizes he doesn't know everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely Lori D and scarletcurls for the beta! One more chapter left, folks (and it's the one that finally rates this one explicit)!
> 
> **Slight trigger warnings here for canonical character death with mentions of cancer.

_They fall in love and fall out, the boys have something to sing about,  
The girls go drown their sorrows at the bars._

 

**8.**

Sherlock is forty years old the first time he finally realizes he doesn’t know everything. The realization is not actually as startling as it should be, though the timing is a bit late in life.

He sits in the hospital room, watching as the most important person in his life cracks around the edges, and cannot help but draw a comparison. This is the second time in John’s life he’s had to say goodbye to someone he loves, and despite the completely different set of circumstances, Sherlock is uncomfortably aware of the similarities. John’s grief is choking and harsh, almost a physical thing in this small room. John holds Mary’s hand tightly, as though he could tether her to life with the sheer force of his will and strength of his grip.

She looks so small there in the hospital bed: her bald head wrapped in a cheerful scarf, her slightly sunken eyes closed as though in sleep. Despite wanting with every fiber of his being to hate her, Sherlock had found her to be charming and clever. He hadn’t exactly _liked_ her, but it was more than tolerance, and John had loved her desperately. Sherlock feels helpless now, a sinking, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watches John register her stillness.

John does not cry. Not immediately. He takes her small hand in both of his and brings her knuckles to his lips, the look of blank resignation tearing through Sherlock’s chest and leaving a gaping wound behind. John is perfectly still for a long time, and Sherlock sits frozen in the corner of the room, afraid to move for fear of completely shattering this strong, brittle man.

Sherlock has seen a lot of death in his life; he’s seen the aftermath of killings and murder, he’s taken life more often than he’ll ever admit, he’s even cheated his own death twice now, but it has never felt like this. He is completely unprepared for the feeling of helplessness as he watches Mary die beneath John’s hands.

The room grows dark before John finally moves. He straightens and swallows, placing Mary’s hand back against her stomach and leans forward to press one last lingering kiss against her forehead. His eyes when he turns to Sherlock are dry and desolate. He looks so lost and blank that Sherlock cannot help but stand and go to him, folding John in his arms and burying his own sob in the top of John’s grey-blonde hair. It takes a few moments, a few breathless heartbeats before John finally moves, his arms coming up to wrap fiercely around Sherlock’s waist and squeezing tight.

Sherlock breathes and breathes and _breathes_ , caging his arms around John’s trembling shoulders and holding him just as tightly. He feels the wetness spreading across his collarbone, listens to the hitch and stutter in John’s shaky breath, moves his right hand up to the back of John’s head and _breathes_. It takes longer than it should, but when John finally breaks, it feels almost like relief. The noises vibrating against Sherlock’s solar plexus are choked and animalistic, John’s trembling becoming violent as the sobs wrack his body. He feels impossibly fragile and small in Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock holds him like the precious thing he is.

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for Sherlock to realize he’s whispering John’s name over and over aloud, rocking him slightly now against his chest. It takes even longer to realize there is wetness against his own face, that there are honest and horrible tears sliding down his own cheeks and into John’s hair. It’s been years since he’s cried, and Sherlock is so startled that he immediately stops. John eventually hiccups into silence, face still buried against the damp silk of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock vaguely registers the buzz of nurses and doctors around them, a part of him loathing that they are seeing him like this: so vulnerable and unguarded. The rest of him wants to shield John against the pain, wants to wrap him in a cocoon of warmth and protection and never let him go.

John finally falls quiet much later, after the nurses and doctors have come and gone, Mary's form covered in a thin white sheet and taken out of the room. John sits in his chair next to the bed and stares at the empty mattress, hands folded tightly in his lap and left leg bouncing restlessly. Sherlock stands awkwardly for a while before sinking to the floor by John's feet, his back to the sharp metal hand rail on the chair. He can feel the heat of John's skin through his trouser leg and longs to reach forward, but knows now is not the time.

After a long moment, John clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice cracked and rough from tears.

Sherlock can feel the incredulity on his face as he turns, but cannot seem to tamp it back. "What on earth do you have to apologize for?"

"For y'know..." John gestures vaguely with his hand in Sherlock's direction, a nervous and uncomfortable smile tugging at his mouth and looking entirely out of place.

It's too much. There are too many thoughts in Sherlock's head, too many emotions warring for his attention, too much data in this little room where sadness and illness drip down the walls in thick reverberations.

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” he hears himself say, and wonders if it is too soon for insults, however familiar. John huffs out a pathetic sound that might be a laugh in any other context and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing briefly before standing up. Sherlock glides gracefully to his feet beside him and shoves his hands in his pockets, worried that if he leaves them out, he might reach for John and demand that he stay here: next to Sherlock for the rest of his days.

Sherlock can feel John’s body heat seeping in through his jacket sleeve, evident even between layers of thick wool and cotton and he can’t help it as he rests his shoulder against John’s affectionately. He is at a loss for what to do now. Sherlock knows he is the world’s least appropriate person to have in a delicate situation like this one, and he tries desperately to quiet his brain enough to _think_ about what John might need most in this scenario.

“Hungry?” he intones warily.

John turns slightly to look up at him, his expression completely blank for one horrible moment, and Sherlock begins to backpedal immediately, half-formed apologies and self-chastisement racing around his brain in consideration. But then John smiles at him, albeit sadly and a little wry, but he smiles nonetheless, and Sherlock feels the immense relief as it washes through him, all uncertainty and doubt clearing away in the solitary curve of John’s lower lip.

“Yeah,” John says slowly. “Yeah, actually. Food sounds pretty brilliant right about now.”

Sherlock smiles hesitantly back, and hands John his coat.

 

They end up back at Baker Street waiting for take-away, Sherlock deducing correctly that John does not particularly want to be around people at the moment. Despite the fact that John has only been to the flat a handful of times since Sherlock’s return, he seems somehow more relaxed and comfortable in the sitting room, ensconced on the old leather sofa with a warm mug of tea in his hand, than he ever had in the flat he shared with Mary. Sherlock silently preens at the thought, and then immediately feels a wave of hot guilt flood into his stomach.

John is staring at the blank television screen, sipping slowly at his cuppa and seemingly trying to process the whole day’s events. Sherlock narrows his eyes and concentrates, deciding he won’t be crass enough to offer the promise of oblivion in bottle form. John would probably welcome the distraction of alcohol now, but be spiteful and guilt-ridden in the morning if he wakes up with a hangover, and proceed to lecture Sherlock on the improper use of booze as a coping mechanism.

The silence between them is strangely oppressive, despite their tentatively rekindled friendship. Sherlock is trying valiantly to keep studiously silent, allowing John the time he obviously needs to work through his current feelings and thought processes. It is a relief when the buzzer sounds and Sherlock can escape to the staircase for their dinner. John eats with a single-mindedness that means he’s not really paying attention to his meal, regardless of the fact that Sherlock bought from John’s favorite Indian restaurant.

Sherlock feels the ache in his chest pulse as John picks apart his naan, tearing the bread into tiny pieces before setting his plate aside and sighing loudly.

“I should go home,” he says quietly, still sounding lost and so broken Sherlock wants nothing more than to hold him close and shield him from the rest of the world entirely.

“You should stay,” Sherlock says, just as quietly, and waits as patiently as he can for John to come to his decision. John licks his lips and finally raises his eyes to Sherlock’s, the pain and grief so acute in them, Sherlock’s breath catches.

It takes a very long time, but John finally nods, standing and following Sherlock into his room, both of them heading there by silent, mutual agreement. Sherlock tosses John a spare tee shirt and his softest pajama trousers, quelling the overwhelming affection as John steps out of the bathroom in them. The trousers are far too long and the shirt too tight, but he looks unfairly adorable in them and Sherlock finds himself wishing he could keep John like this for eternity: soft and vulnerable and completely willing to be here. It is a completely unreasonable thought. Sherlock would not wish this kind of grief on John ever, much less twice in one lifetime, but he will try and comfort him as best he can.

John looks so lost there, suddenly hesitant as he stands awkwardly on the other side of Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock has never offered this before, has never had someone else share his bed, but he suddenly wants it desperately: to feel John curl against him in his sleep, to be able to hear the way John’s breath changes with his REM cycles, to wake up with the warm weight of John beneath his duvet. It is selfish and unfair, and he knows he should leave John well enough alone on tonight of all nights, but he cannot will himself to let go of the idea that he could have this, could have _John_ all to himself, at least for tonight.

Sherlock stays resolutely silent as he pulls back the duvet and slides into bed, deliberately leaving the other side exposed and turning onto his back to stare at the ceiling. John hesitates a moment longer before climbing into bed next to him, the delicious weight of his body shifting the mattress as he slides closer towards the middle, stretching and settling until he finally stills on his left side with his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles quietly and reaches over to the bedside table, clicking off the lamp and plunging the room into darkness. He can hear John’s steady breathing from the other side of the bed and wonders if he’ll actually be allowed to stay like this all night.

“Goodnight, John,” he murmurs quietly at the ceiling. He hears a quiet hum in response and tries to match his breathing to John’s, feeling as though he should say something more comforting, but completely out of his depth in this kind of situation. The mattress shifts a fraction, and he suddenly feels John’s hand on his thigh, squeezing a little once before moving away again.

Sherlock becomes aware of a gentle, muffled noise, the bed stuttering a little as John’s breath hitches quietly. Alarm floods through him immediately and he turns on his side, hand hovering an inch above John’s right shoulder in concern.

“John?” he says, and then holds his breath in response. John sniffs loudly and buries his face into Sherlock’s pillow, the cotton muffling the distinct sound of tears, and Sherlock finds his restraint vanishes completely.

Moving carefully, but determinedly, Sherlock gently slides his arm around John’s waist, pulling him backwards into the cradle of Sherlock’s chest and holding him still. His heart clenches as John’s sobs continue, his whole body shaking with the force of his grief, but John seems to melt into him, his body slotting perfectly along Sherlock’s as though they were made to fit together always. It is completely heartbreaking and entirely inappropriate, but Sherlock finds himself burying his face into the back of John’s neck and _breathing_ , whispering nonsense against John’s skin until his sobs recede and he quiets again.

They are still for a long time, John’s breathing returning to normal, although he doesn’t move away. Sherlock holds him tightly, his hand splayed possessively across John’s sternum, his legs tucked perfectly against the back of John’s thighs and he silently prays he can keep John like this forever. He takes the chance and brushes a gentle kiss against John’s shoulder, hoping to convey all of his affection and need, all of his possessiveness and comfort, all of his shame and _love_ into the simple press of his lips against cotton-covered skin.

John shivers a little and shifts back even closer, pressing his entire body against Sherlock’s front and squeezing his arm where it rests across his middle.

“Thank you,” John whispers softly, the words still muffled slightly by the press of the cotton pillow case.

“Always, John,” Sherlock murmurs, and presses his forehead against the nape of John’s neck. “Always.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John is forty four the first time he gets what he wants in life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EPIC THANKS to scarletcurls for the speedy beta of this chapter!
> 
> **Warning, this chapter bumps the rating to definitely explicit, folks. If that's not your cuppa tea, I'm not sure what you're still doing here...

_All you broken boys and girls,_   
_With your tattered flags unfurled:_   
_Fix yourselves then fix the Fisher King._   
_Won't you fix yourselves to fix the fisher king?_

 

**9.**

John is forty four the first time he actually gets what he wants in life. It’s a convoluted and twisted path that has taken many different turns, but he feels it finally when his wife dies. There is grief there, of course, and pain and sadness and longing and guilt, but the crushing sense of relief is entirely unexpected and devastatingly horrible. John should not be _relieved_ that his wife is dead. It hurts in ways he should be used to by now, watching Mary's life drain out of her as the cancer consumes her from the inside out. It seems that no matter how much grief John has endured in his lifetime, it never gets easier.

He had never felt like he deserved Mary. She was perfect and beautiful and kind and understanding, and everything he'd thought he wanted. She'd offered him the life he should have been happy with: the promise of normality and stability, safe and comfortable and so full of love and happiness. He had loved her; truly, _honestly_ loved her with as much of his heart as was left for the having. The trouble was, there wasn't much left after Sherlock, and once he'd come back from the dead, there was even less of John to give.

The guilt had been staggering. He loved Mary as best he could: caring for her with a quiet, gentle ruthlessness that could bring her to her knees with emotion, and make her come apart in bed. Love that left her breathless and gasping into kisses. Love that was comfortable and warm like a temperate bath on a snowy day. His heart held so much affection for her that sometimes it felt like it might burst right out of his chest when she'd smile at him. She had been carefree and kind. People tended to love her from the very moment they met her, and the sheer quantity of attendants at her funeral was incredible.

As much as John had loved her, though, there had always been a part of him—a very small part that he refused to acknowledge most days—that knew she would never be enough. Sherlock would always hold his heart, whether or not he ever acknowledged it.

Standing in the slightly dusty hallway of 221 Baker Street now with boxes piled around his ankles and his army duffel over his shoulder, John is torn apart with conflicting emotions. He feels his chest swell with overwhelming love for the man at the top of the stairs. Sherlock: looking disheveled and deliciously rumpled in his dressing gown and pajamas, as though he forgot all about the fact that John is moving back in today. John knows better, though. He can see the light behind Sherlock's eyes, the spark of contentment that finally seems to have settled back into Sherlock's face ever since John agreed to move back. It feels as though a part of him has been missing for all these years; and now that he's back in this space with this man, it's as if he's finally _home_ again.

Sherlock bustles down the stairs and stops on the bottom riser, looming absurdly tall over John and taking in every detail with his usual laser-beam focus. His face softens a bit and his lips tug into a small smile, the one that breaks John's heart as much as it makes his chest ache with longing.

"You made the right decision, John," he rumbles, body swaying forward a little as though he's not even aware he's doing it. He slowly slides his long, _long_ fingers up John's bicep and eases the strap of the bag onto his own arm, hefting the weight of it easily across his back and tipping forward to descend the final step. John doesn't move back, intentionally holding his stance as Sherlock lands directly in front of him, bodies so close they are almost touching.

"John," he whispers, the familiar tension between them crackling and thickening with unspoken truths.

"I love you," John breathes, giddy excitement and irrational fear thrumming through his body so quickly he gets light headed. Sherlock looks momentarily pole-axed, as though unexpected declarations of affection are not on his daily diary, and John fights the urge to break out into nervous giggles. It feels as though he's unloaded a great deal more weight than his bag, and the freedom of finally saying it is overdue and addictive.

"I love you," John says again, firmer this time and somehow easier. "I love you so much it hurts, Sherlock. I've loved you since the day we met, and I will continue loving you until one or both of us is gone from this world."

"John," Sherlock whispers, his eyes soft and glassy and so full of happiness John finds he doesn't need to hear the words. He tilts his head forward and finally, _finally_ closes the distance between them.

It's as though he's bridged the gap between the years, trapped as they are again in Kitty Riley's dark and dingy flat. Everything he wanted to say, everything he _should have said_ stretching out between them with every swipe of John's tongue, every scrape of Sherlock's teeth. The kiss is both soft and desperate, chaste and heady, the promise of so much more, yet completely fulfilling. Sherlock's lips are soft and pliant, his tongue warm and wet and demanding in its sensuality.

John vaguely registers the sound of the bag falling to the floor, the contents rattling precariously as they bounce off the stairs. Sherlock's large hands slide up his shoulders and neck, framing his face and tilting his head back before realigning their lips once more and _devouring_ John's mouth. Any hesitation he'd felt before is now gone in the slide of teeth and tongues, the fingers of John's left hand tangling into the back of Sherlock's soft curls as his other hand gets wrapped up between navy silk and grey cotton. Sherlock groans long and low against John's tongue and presses impossibly closer, and John feels the tattered remains of his restraint shatter on impact.

John pulls back long enough to heave in a breath, pressing their foreheads together and trying to quell the intense desire racing through his blood. Sherlock is panting against his ear, fingers clutching at the nape of his neck as though he's afraid John is going to vanish if he loosens his hold at all. John realizes Sherlock is trembling and glances up to find Sherlock's eyes screwed shut tight.

"Sherlock?" John whispers, concern evident in his tone even to his own ears. He moves to stroke the curls off of Sherlock's forehead, brow furrowing when Sherlock nearly flinches at the contact. "Are you alright?"

"John," Sherlock says again, and it sounds cracked and raw. He finally blinks his eyes open and John is startled at the wild look to them. "John, I... I've missed you. I'm sorry, about Mary. I'm sorry I never told you. Don't—” he swallows audibly and grits his teeth, but carries on, “Don’t leave me again, John. Please."

"Hey," John says, worry and nerves taking the edge off his desperation. "Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere. I've always been yours. I belong here."

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, and the relief flooding through him is palpable. John slides his hand down to Sherlock's and tangles their fingers together, the feeling so natural it's almost alarming. He tugs lightly and laughs as Sherlock bounds up the stairs past him, pulling John along in his wake as he always does.

The minute the door to 221B shuts behind them, John finds himself shoved up against it, his back hard against the wood as Sherlock's tongue sweeps into his mouth, taking all of John's rational thought with it. He feels Sherlock’s fingers plucking at his buttons, registers the implication that he should really toe himself out of his shoes and socks right about now as Sherlock’s deft fingers move to the button on his denims. The fabric slides off of him with indecent swiftness and he finds himself suddenly exposed in the sitting room at eleven in the morning, against the wall in nothing but his pants with Sherlock’s tongue firmly in his mouth.

Falling into bed feels like the most natural thing in the world. Sherlock's sheets are soft and comfortable, the cotton smelling of tobacco and leather and overpriced aftershave. John buries his face in the pillowcase and inhales deeply, surrounding himself in the scent and feeling of the man he can finally admit he loves. Sherlock hovers on the edge of the mattress for a moment, just gazing at John in his bed with soft eyes and a quiet smile.

"What?" John eventually asks, self-consciousness creeping in and making him feel slightly foolish, sprawled across the decedent sheets like the cover of a cheap romance novel.

"You, John Watson, are a marvel," Sherlock says, shaking his head briefly before unceremoniously shedding his clothing in quick, efficient movements. He crawls onto the bed, all gorgeous angles and predatory grin, and John feels slightly breathless.

"Problem?" Sherlock asks, nose skimming up the side of John's neck and making him shudder.

"I've just imagined you in my bed so many times that finally having you here feels a bit unreal,” John chokes breathlessly.

"Ah, but this is _my_ bed, John," Sherlock admonishes, lowering his weight and pinning John to the mattress with his hips, the hard jut of his cock pressing insistently into the delicate flesh of John's inner thigh. "And I don't need to imagine it anymore."

John feels as though his skin is on fire. Everywhere his body touches Sherlock's burns with indecent slickness and heat. He feels the throb of emotions drowning in and mixing with the heady sense of arousal flooding through him. He's wanted Sherlock for so long, _loved_ him for so long that it feels as though he might just ignite where he is, pressed into Sherlock's bed. Sherlock is doing truly wicked things to John's ear, circling and flicking his tongue against the shell of it and making John squirm with the implication.

Sherlock hums against his skin, the sound rumbling through him like a distant thunderstorm: dangerous and electric and wonderfully thrilling. John can feel his whole body tingling as Sherlock begins to move against him, hips stuttering as they find a rhythm together. John skims his hands down Sherlock's back, cradling him as well as tugging him forward. He wants to cherish this moment as much as he can, but the desire is overwhelming and overpowering his senses until he can focus on nothing else but Sherlock: over him and against him and moving with him. John is suddenly aware that his orgasm is dangerously close, and he pulls away from Sherlock's addictive mouth to gasp wetly.

Sherlock is intoxicating like this: all heady arousal and tousled hair and sharp cheekbones. He moves with a grace that should be illegal and John finds himself reaching forward unconsciously and dragging his mouth up that long expanse of pale neck. He feels the groan as it travels up Sherlock’s chest, the sound rolling through him and kicking up his desire a good few notches.

Sherlock’s hips speed up, and John finds it ridiculous that he’s still got his pants on, the cotton starting to rub uncomfortably against the exposed glans of his cock. He tries to push Sherlock up a little, but finds his wrists trapped in one long-fingered hand above his head, and stops struggling completely in favor of arching up into that delicious friction.

Sherlock’s corresponding grin is decidedly cheeky, and John shivers as his fingers find a nipple and pinch slightly. He gasps and Sherlock takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth, tongue demanding and teeth just this side of too sharp. John can feel his control spiraling again, and he bucks up against the press of Sherlock’s hips, still attempting to dislodge him.

“Stay just like this,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, flexing his long fingers around John’s wrists once before sliding down his body and capturing John’s other nipple between his lips and sucking hard. John’s back twists at the assault and he groans loudly, wondering if it is actually possible to combust from overstimulation.

"Sherlock, stop," John groans, bowing beneath the onslaught of hands and teeth. Sherlock growls deep in his chest and surges forward again, capturing John's lips in a searing kiss that leaves his toes curling into the mattress. "Aren't we moving a bit fast here?" John gasps when they break apart for oxygen.

Sherlock pulls back just enough to look into John's eyes, his own pupils dilated into obscurity, his lips swollen and wet. He looks deliciously debauched and John can't help it as his hips roll of their own volition, his erection straining against the cotton of his pants.

"I've wanted you for seven years, John. We're not moving fast enough."

"Christ," John breathes and his neck rocks back as Sherlock's teeth close around his pulse point. Sherlock sucks hard and John lets loose a keening whine that would be embarrassing if he could think around the idea that Sherlock is finally _claiming_ him, the juvenile bruise that’s forming sure to last for days afterwards. He fists his fingers through the slightly greying patches at Sherlock’s temples and tugs him forward again, softening the kiss into something less hungry, less demanding and far more intimate. The rumbling groan that passes through Sherlock’s chest seems to shake John’s ribs and he finds himself twining his arms around Sherlock, the sheer joy of being this close irresistible and glorious.

“God,” John whimpers and finally succeeds in shoving Sherlock away enough to kick his pants down to the end of the bed. Sherlock hums and grins, slowly rocking his hips forward in a delicious slide of skin on skin, and John is lost. Christ, he’d never anticipated that it would feel this good. John can feel his orgasm again, starting at the base of his spine and licking flames outward, but just as he’s about to tip over the edge, Sherlock pulls back sharply.

“Not yet,” he growls, and John gasps, dizzy with the denial.

“Sherlock,” he groans instead and shudders as his hips stutter in the air, seeking friction that is frustratingly out of reach. John pries his eyes open to glare at Sherlock, only to catch his breath at the sight before him. Sherlock looks absolutely wrecked: his lips are bitten red, hair a riot of dark curls, sweaty and tangled as he pants, his eyes dark and desperate. John smirks and reaches forward to follow an errant bead of sweat as it drips slowly down the side of that long, pale neck, reveling in the gooseflesh that rises in his wake. Sherlock shudders and leans in to capture John’s lips in a kiss that’s more a smear of tongues than anything resembling graceful.

Without warning, Sherlock shoves himself down the bed, and John is honestly shocked for a full two seconds before his head knocks back against the pillows as his cock is engulfed in an impossibly hot, wet mouth.

“Jesus,” John moans, fingers fisting in the sheets as he tries desperately to cling to his control. Sherlock swirls his tongue around the edge of his foreskin, teasing enticingly at the glans before sucking him down to the root in a smooth move that John’s only ever witnessed in adult rated films. “Oh my _god_.”

Sherlock blinks up at him through a curtain of curls, swallowing around the head of John’s cock and taking John apart with his mind as much as his sinfully hot mouth. John recognizes the look on Sherlock’s face: he’s categorizing every reaction John makes and filing it away into that great big brain of his. John feels simultaneously flattered and bloody terrified as his control slips just a little bit further.

“Of course you’re brilliant at this,” John huffs, his voice sounding slightly hysterical even to his own ears. “Of _course_ you are.” He can damned well _feel_ Sherlock’s smirk around his cock as he bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard enough that John sees stars. John realizes the fingers of his left hand are tangled in Sherlock’s hair only when he yanks instinctively, causing Sherlock to growl again, the vibrations thrumming along his prick and right through to his bollocks. John’s orgasm begins spiraling again, the heat and intensity of it coiling low in his abdomen and pulsing up through his veins.

Sherlock must feel him tensing, because he hums again and pulls back with an obscenely slick noise, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and still smoldering up at John through his fringe. John is finding it increasingly more difficult to breathe as he tries to calm himself again, his orgasm so close he can taste it. His pulse is loud in his ears as he deliberately slows his breath, gasping around the arousal and pheromones clogging his thought process.

Sherlock’s smug grin is far too enticing, and John yanks him forward by the hair, nipping at his bottom lip in retaliation. John doesn’t seem to be able to stop kissing Sherlock; as though now the floodgates are open, now that he’s _tasted_ , he will never get enough of Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock’s tongue and Sherlock’s teeth and those little noises coming out of his throat. Sherlock shivers again and groans against John’s tongue before pitching himself to the side, reaching for his bedside table with slightly shaking limbs. John realizes the implication of the move and suddenly tenses, unsure for the first time about exactly how far he’s willing to go.

Sherlock returns with a foil packet and a mostly new bottle of lubricant, tossing both casually onto the bed before leaning forward and pressing his lips into the hollow of John’s throat. John tries valiantly to calm his breathing, the small tendrils of panic fading into background noise as Sherlock licks a trail up John’s neck.

“John,” Sherlock purrs and capture’s John’s lips with his own. John sinks into the kiss, letting his nerves fray as he’s swept up into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, the sensuous slide of his tongue. He feels like he’s drowning in Sherlock: in the taste and feel of him, in the sensation of _finally_ being able to touch, to breathe him in and hold him close. It’s nearly too much, and John breaks the kiss with a gasp.

Sherlock’s face is so open; affection and tenderness undercut with a thick layer of want and need, and John is lost. He’s never seen Sherlock so unguarded, so readable, and he feels his chest expand with love for this man. John tenderly reaches up and smoothes back a few curls, tucking stray bits of hair behind Sherlock’s ears and simply staring at him. Sherlock stills under his fingers, watching him back with all of his considerable focus, and John feels like they are the only two people in the world.

“I love you,” John whispers, and he can see the knowledge bleed into Sherlock’s consciousness. Sherlock’s eyes close and he tilts his face towards John’s palm, lips grazing along the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. John’s answering smile is joyful, and when Sherlock blinks his eyes open, John can see the love stamped all across his face as though highlighted in neon ink.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, tongue flicking out to caress the delicate pads of John’s fingers. “I want,” Sherlock starts, and then inhales deeply, breath gusting out over John’s hand in hot waves. “I _need_ —” He doesn’t seem to be able to verbalize his thoughts, and John takes pity on him.

“Yes,” John whispers against Sherlock’s temple, dark curls catching on his lips as he presses them there softly. Sherlock’s breath is shaky and he pulls back a little to stare into John’s eyes, looking for confirmation. John allows all of his emotions free reign, and it must be enough because Sherlock swallows audibly and pulls himself away, locating the bottle of lubricant with slightly shaking hands.

Sherlock slicks two of his fingers with the lubricant before tossing the bottle aside and looming over John. He presses his lips to John’s abdomen, tongue snaking out to trace along muscle and bone, and John feels each touch like a brand against his oversensitive skin. He moans, loud and long as Sherlock’s mouth moves lower, plush lips skimming along the ridge of a hipbone, tongue tripping along the line of dark blonde hair as he nears John’s leaking cock.

John is so caught up in the sight and feel of Sherlock’s head between his legs that he actually jumps when he feels the first tentative touch of a slick finger against his arse. Sherlock’s face tilts up, and the look in his eyes is staggering: reverence and lust and devastating love pouring out of him in equal measure, but John’s body betrays him.

“Sherlock, wait,” John stutters, his legs tensing before he can stop himself. “I’ve never--”

“Hush, John. I know,” Sherlock murmurs, his lips catching against the skin of John’s inner thigh. The first push of his finger against John’s hole is uncomfortable, and John squirms at the unfamiliar pressure.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock breathes, mouthing at the skin just above his hip. The spot is suddenly ticklish and John jerks a little, a nervous, high-pitched giggle escaping before he can stop it. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he moves his mouth again, this time nibbling a little with his teeth and John laughs helplessly, registering somewhere in the back of his brain the steady pressure against his arse, but unable to process the information until Sherlock’s finger slides in to the knuckle. John gasps, all laughter gone as Sherlock pulls his hand back a little before pushing it in again and angling his finger up, rubbing over John’s prostate with a precision that should be impossible. John’s whole back arches off the bed, nearly dislodging Sherlock, who smirks in self-satisfaction before curling his finger again and causing John to buck his hips upwards.

“Jesus fucking christ,” John exhales, his whole body trembling with unfamiliar pleasure. It’s not exactly comfortable, but he seems to be adjusting to the sensations faster than he’d ever imagined he would. John feels another gentle pressure, and suddenly there are two fingers inside of him, stretching him open and making him shudder with want. Sherlock’s long fingers are coaxing sounds out of him he’s never heard himself make before, and John feels a momentary pang of embarrassment before Sherlock bends forward and licks at the steady stream of pre-come leaking along the length of John’s cock.

John’s head thunks back against the mattress as he surrenders, the sensations too much; short circuiting his brain with the intensity of it all. His pulse is thudding so loudly in his ears, he can barely hear the steady groans that are drifting up from the foot of the bed, Sherlock’s low baritone gently cutting through the haze. At the stretch of three fingers, John can’t help but flinch a little, the pain overriding the pleasure for a brief moment, and Sherlock stills.

“John?” he asks, his voice low and slightly breathless.

“I’m alright,” John says, his own voice unsteady in the dim room. “Just give me a minute, yeah?”

Sherlock hums and presses a gentle kiss to the base of John’s cock, the skin jumping at the contact and making John groan. The pain is receding in slow increments and he flexes his muscles a little, drawing a sharp inhalation from Sherlock. Time seems to stop for one heartbreaking moment before Sherlock shifts his wrist again, twisting in a way that has John crying out to some unknown deity.

It’s good, _so good_ , better than he’d ever expected; much better than the single finger he’s tried himself, his wrist cramping within minutes at the awkward angle. The fact that it’s _Sherlock_ taking him apart so effectively has him gasping for breath, and he barely recognizes his own voice as it breaks on the steady litany of _now, now, now, **now**_ **.**

Sherlock pulls his fingers back slowly, and John is left momentarily bereft. He feels so achingly empty, and he can sense his body trying to clamp down on graceful fingers that are no longer there. It’s an embarrassing thought, and he feels his face flushing even as he watches Sherlock tear open the condom with unsteady fingers. Sherlock must hear the hitch in his breath, because he pauses mid-motion, with the latex halted absurdly halfway down the length of his suddenly quite intimidating erection.

“John?” he says, his voice husky and deeper than John’s ever heard it. Just the mere sound of that voice, rumbling along his nerve endings and resonating through his very bones has John groaning. “John, if you don’t want—”

“Yes. _Please._ Fuck me,” John gasps, suddenly wanting it with every fibre of his being. The vehemence in his tone is entirely too much, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind at all. He takes a deep breath and leans forward, using one of those sinful hands to guide himself into position. John reaches forward, helpless against the rising tide of emotions, and wraps both of his arms around Sherlock’s narrow shoulders, pulling him down and demanding a kiss, needing the contact to steady his nerves. Sherlock groans into the kiss, and John can feel the head of Sherlock’s cock dragging tantalizingly against his perineum for a moment before it catches on the rim of his loosened hole.

“God yes,” John exhales into slightly damp, pale skin, and it’s just enough to throw Sherlock over the edge. He pushes forward into John in one slow, slick slide, pausing only when his hips bump against the back of John’s thighs. John feels completely overwhelmed: the initial discomfort giving way to a delicious feeling of fullness, the connection he has with Sherlock overriding any of his objections in one slow heartbeat.

John opens his eyes, not even aware of when he closed them, to find Sherlock gazing at him in what looks suspiciously like wonder. He licks his lips when he catches John’s gaze and seems to struggle for a moment before he takes a deep breath and gently eases himself back, pulling almost entirely out before sinking in again with slow roll of his hips.

“John,” he whispers, and John can feel the irrational tears suddenly choking up the back of his throat. He leans in to nip at the side of Sherlock’s throat instead, needing a bit of roughness to counterbalance the flood of emotions threatening to engulf him. Sherlock’s reaction is immediate: his startled gasp followed swiftly by a low growl and a sharp snap of his hips.

“Oh _christ_ ,” John gasps, and arches into the next thrust, one of Sherlock’s hands coming up to pin his right wrist to the bed.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock groans, and it seems like the only word he’s capable of articulating at the moment. His hips speed up until he’s crashing into John hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall. John can feel his orgasm looming ever closer, telltale tingles starting at the base of his spine and radiating outwards. He’s been on edge for too long, wanted this for too long, _needed_ this for far too long. The very air seems to vibrate with pheromones, thick with their mingled grunts and sighs.

Sherlock sits back a little, sliding a long hand up the back of John’s thigh and pulling his knee over one bony shoulder. The angle shifts and John cries out as Sherlock begins nudging against his prostate with every relentless, rhythmic thrust of his hips. John is beyond embarrassment, beyond _thought_ as he finally reaches down between them and swipes his palm over the head of his cock. Sherlock’s weight on his right wrist is starting to ache, but John barely feels it as he starts to slip over the edge. Sherlock leans forward and licks a broad stripe up his neck before sinking his teeth into the underside of his jaw, and John just falls apart.

His back arches as he comes, cock jerking and painting white stripes up his abdomen and all along his ribs. His body is pulsing and tensing with every delirious wave, pleasure so hot it’s almost pain searing along his nerve endings, and he’s briefly aware of the strangled gasp he makes as he shatters.

Sherlock never slows his pace, fucking John through it until he falls limp against the mattress, sated and exhausted and so utterly content he doesn’t know where to begin. He blinks up blearily at Sherlock: and he is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. He looks half mad with lust: his cheeks flushed, eyes shining and wide, dark curls tipped with sweat.

“Christ, John,” Sherlock pants and he finally lets go of John’s wrist to tangle their fingers together against the cotton sheets. John’s smile is so wide he feels his face begin to cramp. He deliberately clenches his muscles down on Sherlock’s cock and glories in the way Sherlock’s head snaps back, tendons straining all along his elegant neck, teeth clenched.

“ _Yes_ ,” John breathes. “God, you’re gorgeous. Come for me.”

Sherlock lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob and begins trembling so violently his rhythm falters. He lets go of John’s fingers long enough to bring both of his hands down to John’s hips, yanking him down onto his cock with a force that will surely bruise. John arches back again and clenches down, pulling Sherlock in with his heel against a sharp shoulder blade. John is overstimulated and sore, but he forces his eyes to stay open as Sherlock begins to crack; shuddering and jerking his hips forward twice more before he stills completely, his whole body tense and shaking as he comes, his beautiful lips wordlessly shaping John’s name.

Sherlock holds there for a few breathless heartbeats, fingers clenched around John’s thighs and arse, still holding him off the bed before he takes a deep breath and blinks his eyes open, the pupils dilating into focus as he turns his gaze on John. John feels completely wrecked: sweaty and sated, still gasping for breath in a vague attempt to calm his racing pulse. Sherlock smiles down at him-- the crooked one that shows his imperfect teeth. It’s all blissful exhilaration and radiant joy and John finds his own face mirroring the expression easily, his heart swelling with so much love he fears his chest might just explode with the impact.

Sherlock shifts back a little, holding the base of the condom and sliding out with an obscenely slick pop which causes John to giggle inappropriately. Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes a little, but discards the condom and leans back in, allowing John’s leg to slide from his shoulder to wrap around his waist instead. Sherlock lays carefully down, distributing his weight evenly so as not to crush John, but John doesn’t mind. He pulls Sherlock down for a messy kiss full of heaving breath and too much tongue.

After a few moments, the kiss softens into small brushes of affection and John tangles his fingers into Sherlock’s sweaty curls, running the pads of them over his sensitive scalp and causing Sherlock to melt against his chest with a content sigh.

John doesn’t necessarily believe in fate, but it feels like they’ve been heading in this direction from the first moment they met. Coincidence and sheer chance guiding them into each other’s paths: one broken man in search of someone to heal, another broken man in search of someone to save. Together they fit; smoothing out each other’s jagged edges and balancing their own version of normality. Sherlock is obviously a better man with John in his life, and John… John knows what it’s like to be without Sherlock, and he never wants to feel that kind of emptiness again.

 “I was so alone,” John breathes into Sherlock’s damp curls. Sherlock tilts his head to rest a pointy chin on John’s sternum, pale eyes reflecting contentment and euphoria and _love_.

“No, John,” he murmurs and reaches up to tangle their fingers together once more, bringing their joined hands to his mouth and pressing his lips to each of John’s knuckles in turn. “Not alone. Never again.”

John feels the slow, quiet smile spread across his face, and he feels entirely whole for the first time in his life. He can be strong and he can be powerful and he can save lives. He can be a soldier and a doctor and a brother and a son, a husband and a lover and the blogger to the world’s only consulting detective. He can be many things at once, or nothing at all, but he will always be Sherlock’s, and that is something entirely wonderful.

“Never again,” John agrees, and leans in for a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks are in order to two lovely ladies who helped me out with this one from the very beginning, and to Evie for letting me yammer on about it inappropriately at work until I had all the proper plot points kinked out. 
> 
> Epic thanks also to you lovely readers, whose comments and kudos have fueled me on from the first moment I met this fandom. You guys are seriously the best!
> 
> Song lyrics and title are borrowed from the fantastically talented Frank Turner, without which this story would not have planted a little epic seed in my brain. If you've not had the chance, give his "Tape Deck Heart" album a listen. I doubt you'll regret it :D


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